Long-ago Letter Sheds Light on Great-Grandfather's Life
Fifty-nine years ago, a man named Ray sat down in the heart of small-town America and penned a beautiful tribute upon the passing of his dear friend and sent it to the local newspaper. Little did he know of the precious gift he was giving me, the only real insights I have of the man who was my great-grandfather, Charles Albert Burnette.
Ray’s tribute is part of a family history scrapbook my sister researched and compiled for our family that we got for Christmas this year. Although I am the life story writer in the family, she is the genealogist, loving nothing better than to dive in and put the pieces of the ancestry puzzle together.
I never met my great-grandfather. He died in 1955 at the age of 82 before I was born. Interestingly, I named my son Charles not even realizing the family connection. When I was younger, I didn’t have a lot of interest in “my people,” but that has changed.
When I was about seven or eight years old, I remember taking a trip with my grandparents to visit my great-grandparents' abandoned farmhouse in Tilden, Illinois, which is about 40 miles southeast of St. Louis. Back then, Tilden had the look of struggling farm town, old and dusty, with a population of about 1,000.
What Tilden lacked in vitality and beauty was more than made up for by the warmth and hospitality of the family friends and neighbors we visited at nearby farms. The women would prepare huge meals and express delight upon seeing my grandmother again. On that visit, we visited my great-grandparents' house, where my grandmother grew up. I remember it as a small rustic house that much to my growing-up-in-the-suburbs amazement had an outhouse in the back yard . . . an empty house that had left no clues to the lives of its owners. But thanks to Ray—whose identity is a mystery because I don’t even have his last name—I have this beautiful portrait of my great-grandfather’s life. Here’s what he wrote in May 1955:
At the End of the Race: “Dad” Burnette
On the outskirts of Tilden, Ill., facing the east toward Plum Creek, stands a small yellow frame house. Until just recently two elderly people in their waning years lived there and enjoyed its comfort provided by the shade from the full width porch and the foliage of the immense trees that they had set out in their young and happy years.
Mrs. Albert Burnette, the Mrs. of this gracious old pair, fell and was hospitalized with a broken hip, and seemingly through grief Charles Albert Burnette was soon admitted to a nursing home. Despite the constant and fatherly care administered to him Mr. Burnette apparently could not overcome it and succumbed May 26.
In his passing he takes to the grave many things that this world needs to live on. He was kind, he was honest, and the words that he spoke seemed to be weighed and exact with precision.
Dad, as he was best known to the hunters, would sit on the long porch of evenings and watch for the red fox as they would traffic back and forth up and down Plum Creek. He knew the exact place for the cast and loved foxhunting just as well as anyone who ever lived, and was always careful to maintain a pack of hounds up until a few years before death claimed him.
His funeral clearly depicted what the fruits of good living are when they held his services in the largest church in Tilden, only to see people standing to pay their last respects.
We’ll miss Dad and be honest with ourselves to not expect another to come our way as was Charles Albert Burnette. After 82 years, four months and three days, his vigil on Plum Creek is over. Thank you Ray, your spirit of compassion and goodness has far surpassed your earthly years. And for the reminder that the best gifts aren’t ones you can buy but come from our hearts.
—by Linda Abbott