James L. Cowles--If Only I Had Known Them

If Only I Had Known Them

James L. Cowles

(c) Copyright 2026 by James L. Cowles

Part of obituary in the Brownsville, Ky, newspaper.

I am not sure where I intend to go with this, but lately I’ve had thoughts I want to write down so they are not lost. I recently reread my paternal grandfather Jesse’s obituary, and it suddenly struck me: I never knew either of my grandparents.

Grandfather Jesse died in August of 1939, and I was born in June of 1941, so obviously, I never met him. I’ve heard stories about him, and I have seen pictures, but I did not have the privilege of knowing him. What's more, the same is true of my mother’s side. In fact, I am ashamed to say I do not even know my maternal grandfather’s name. That is sad, indeed. I am not attempting to place any blame for this; it is what it is, and if there is blame to be had, much of it would fall on yours truly. I duly note that I was born the fourth and final child in my immediate family, and since my youngest of three sisters was ten years my senior, she and my other siblings knew these folks pretty well; those whom I have never met. My youngest sister, Gloria, who recently passed, was the one who seemed to carry the family bios in her memory, so these must have been important people. I know she shared a lot of that with me, but I also know my attention span was not as good as I wish it had been.

I have always been a positive person, looking for the good things in life, and I never wanted to dwell on the past. For example, when I worked as a “Director of Sales and Marketing,” I always looked ahead and left the past in the dust. My business life came at me, one year at a time, and each year I tried my best to exceed the prior year's results. But let’s be honest. I cannot blame my education and training for my lack of attention to important family matters. I apparently failed to pay attention. However, my brain tells me to always look on the positive side, so here it is. I have eight sets of Aunts and Uncles, the products of those I did not know, but all of them whom I knew well. Some I favored more than others, but every one of them was kind to me and loved me. What a wonderful thing to have all these good people in my life. And I cannot forget all of the cousins. This group of aunts and uncles was indeed prolific, producing fifteen offspring, most of whom were close to my age. Lots of kids to play with at family gatherings. Still, I am haunted by those I never got to know.

Let me tell you what I do know about some of these people. I know that my father had a little sister whose dress caught fire in front of the family’s fireplace. My sister Gloria told me of the tragedy of my little four-year-old aunt, who suffered for several days before dying, and I understand why my father never spoke about her. My daughter, Debbie, found the man who owned the land where our old family cabin sat, and he invited us to visit the family graves on his property. I was surprised to find not only my paternal grandmother's and my little aunt’s graves, but also, lying next to them were two uncles, both of whom were noticeably young when they passed. All of these deaths came in the late nineteenth or early twentieth century, near Brownsville, Kentucky. It was a time when country folks had little access to medicine, and so you just did the best you could. I was overcome with sadness to see the plain creek stone markings on their graves, and humbled by their simplicity.

I am sure I am not the only person to have experienced something like this. In fact, I have met other “last child” persons, and they don’t know much about their relatives either. At any rate, I am glad I know a tiny bit more about my family, even though I did not have the privilege of knowing them personally. I hasten to add, there is still much I do not know, but at least I know a little more than before. More importantly, I know why my father never shared the sad details of his early childhood. It must have been so overwhelming for a young boy. I know every person experiences tragedies in life at some point, but the thought of losing a little sister in such a horrible way is so sad,

Since I have acknowledged the sadness of not knowing my grand family, I suppose I should tell you about some of the more humorous stories I have heard. Though few, these stories tell a tale of happiness and love. Sadly, my paternal grandfather, Jesse, is the only one I have real stories about.

Swimming in Brownsville was done in the various creeks throughout the county, as was the act of baptism, of course. In fact, the creeks were so especially important in the lives of country folk in former days: to bathe, to swim, to fish, to water their livestock, to help extinguish unwanted fires. Even today, with water lines installed by the county, all those wonderful creeks continue to benefit most everyone. There were no YMCA swimming classes in my father’s day. Every red-blooded boy and girl learned to swim in the creek. My father told me how he learned. In fact, my grandfather taught him in just one afternoon. There in Edmonson County, near the little hamlet of Rhonda (pronounced “Roadie”), where, besides the Green River, there are two primary places to swim in the creek: “Little Rock” and “Big Rock.” The difference is, Little Rock is not at all deep - a fun place to splash around in the water. On the other hand, if you truly wished to swim, Big Rock is deep and spacious. It’s where swimmers want to be.

My grandfather had moved to Louisville to work for the railroad and left my father, Aubrey, to live with his Aunt Mattie, my grandfather’s sister. My father’s mother had died when he was only three, and Mattie became sort of a surrogate parent. Grandfather would return home on weekends, a distance of only about one hundred miles. During one of those weekends, my Father and Grandfather were walking alongside the creek, and he asked Dad if he had ever learned how to swim. Dad answered, “No, sir, not yet.” Dad said that within seconds he found himself in the middle of the creek, going under, and trying to get to the surface to take a breath. My grandfather had simply picked him up and thrown him in, and every time he came back up, Jesse would hold a limb out to him, and when he reached for it, his own father would pull it back. Dad said his father shouted instructions from the bank, and soon he got the hang of it and swam to shore. You had to be tough to be a country boy.

I used to love to go to Little Rock to relax in the cool water on a sizzling summer day. It didn't take much to get the family to go, especially when temperatures reached the nineties. I have to be honest and say my opinion of my grandfather hit a low after hearing my Dad’s story of learning to swim, and of course it made me suspicious of my father, thinking he might pull that stunt with me. Dad used to tell that story over and over, and he said he was in no real danger while floundering around in the middle of the creek. He said his dad was an excellent swimmer, and also a serious prankster. In fact, that reminds me of another story about the two of them.

Seems my father was quite taken by all the country girls when he was a teenager, and he apparently courted a lot of young ladies in his day. I guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, but then that is another story. At any rate, it seems that Dad fell for a young lady who lived across the county from his home, but he found a shortcut that reduced the distance substantially. However, he did have to cut across several pastures and a creek or two, but he said the thing that bothered him most was having to walk through one of the largest graveyards in the area. The proverbial “Whistling through the graveyard” was so true in his case. He said he whistled as loud as he could and walked as fast as was safe, but on his way home at 10:00 or 11:00 PM. It was always pitch dark, with the moon his only light.

One of those late nights, Aubrey was particularly apprehensive. He got a late start heading back home, and a storm was brewing in the distance, so he was going a bit faster than he should. Apparently, my grandfather knew the exact path Dad took as he made his way back and decided to play a little trick. He grabbed one of his bed sheets and made his way down to the cemetery, then, donning the sheet, hid behind one of the large tombstones, waiting for his son. When he heard the whistling begin, he readied himself to pop out right in his son’s path. BOO!!! Now the thing about country boys, nearly every one of them owned a jack knife, and in addition to his whistling, Dad had that knife out, ready for swift use. When my grandfather saw the knife shining in the moonlight, he yelled, “Aubrey, Aubrey, Hey, it’s me, it’s me, your father.” Dad said they were both grateful the storm had not yet hit, and the moon was still bright, or there could have been a catastrophe.

One other story about Grandfather Jesse. When I was a child, I remember a drawer in a small cabinet in our house, filled with a few tools: a hammer, several screwdrivers, wrenches, and an assortment of nails and screws, and tucked in one corner of that drawer was a black Luden’s cough drop, obviously partially used. When I asked Dad why it was there, he said, “That was in your grandfather’s mouth when he passed, son.” I suppose it represented a faint connection to his father each time he opened that drawer and saw it. He didn't have the heart to toss it out.

Sadly, these three things are all I really know about Jesse, but knowing them tells me he loved and was loved. I wish I had met him because I really think I would have liked him. Stories like this are good fodder for your brain. I do have something physical of his. I have his cane, which he made himself from Hickory, cut from one of his trees. My father used it in the latter part of his life, and now I use it on occasion. These stories and his cane help me keep a family connection. They are important to me.

My maternal grandfather is not even a distant memory. I do know this about him: he was a fiddle player, and I am pretty certain that my love of music comes from this side of my family; at least I had aunts and uncles from that side who often had singing parties, something I love to this day. Concerning Grandmothers on both sides of my family, I am ashamed to say, I do not even know their names; I did meet my mother's stepmother when I was only four or five years old. She had a rough-sounding voice that scared me, and she was hobbled on crutches as a result of polio. I was afraid of her, but I do remember her smile. She was a sweet lady, and Mom loved her. Still, I wish I had known my fiddling grandfather. I am certain I would have liked him.

I’ll stop here, but I want to leave one thought with anyone who may read this: do not assume your children know your family’s stories. Take the time to tell them about your elders and relatives. For example, although I was too young to remember, my dad served as a block Air-Raid Warden during World War II. During drills, his job was to make sure all lights on our block were turned off—or at least that the shades were pulled—and by all accounts, he took the job seriously. Yet the first time he performed his duties, and did so perfectly, when he returned home, he found his own house glowing with light, music playing, every lamp on, and not a single shade pulled down. Apparently, he was teased about it during every practice drill afterward. His own girls had broken the rules. It is stories like these that become treasured memories later in life. Tell the stories. Write them down. Make the memories.

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