George Clifford Walker 1909-2007

When I was a boy, my mother's mother referred to "Clifford," her younger brother who lived "in Atlanta" and ran a dry cleaning store. My brother, mother and grandmother would travel fairly often from either North Carolina or--later--Tennessee to see Clifford and my great-aunt Annie Will as well as perhaps either or both of their daughters Anne and Deborah. The Walker side of my family was and remains very small even by adding the children of my cousins Mark, Scott, Jeff, Todd and Julie (who, to clarify, is not yet married and has no children) and the children of Pat, who married Clifford a few years after Annie Will died in 1984. All that as it is, I have more memories of Clifford from my childhood than perhaps a typical great-nephew does in similar situation given the size of our family and the manner in which it has managed to stay in contact--by association and, more recently, by spending time at this or that event--through the years. For however these matters came about and have continued, I am grateful. I'm writing on December 28, 2007 in recognition that Clifford, after a somewhat unexpected illness, probably will not live much longer. As my relatives say, there may be a miracle, but I'm nonetheless trying to gather thoughts in case something else takes place in the next several days.
My Grandmother--Lorraine Walker Brookshire--was Clifford's oldest sibling of the four born to the union of their parents Joshua Taylor and Mary Bronson Walker. If ever there was a southern lady, my Grandmother fit the bill and Clifford became, in his own type of way, an elegant southern gentleman. I do not mean to say that either of them were stiff cigar-store Indians without spirit or life for they both radiated with each. It was difficult for a small boy--me--to appreciate the extent to which Grandmother and Clifford resembled one another and tried to give something to me besides a desire for material matters of this, that or the other variety. As I've gotten older, however, what they said and, more importantly, did enabled me to begin to somewhat grasp what they had in mind. After Grandmother died in 1980, I guess Clifford came to serve that role in my life to a larger extent than I knew until I more fully realized it over the last four or five years. I have been increasingly grateful that he has lived as long and been as healthy as he has. Six months ago, I had a chance to visit with Clifford and Pat in their home, share a few stories and simply to hear his words and see his facial expressions as some of his great-grandchildren scurried around the living room almost literally under his feet. Being able to have that set of experiences with someone who was, at the time, 97 and then to share a huge Sunday brunch the next day will remain with me as long as I live. As will the picture I have of Clifford, Pat and myself on their front porch (thanks to Scott for taking the shot).
During my childhood, I was full of fire and vinegar about a lot of things that I now find, well, foolish and misplaced. I suppose that's a normal retrospective, but I wish that I would have appreciated Clifford more for who he was rather than sometimes what he may or may not have thought. We all have those sorts of disconnects and I would rather honor Clifford's person than quibble over matters that were much more products of an earlier time and place than any sort of actual notion. Heaven knows I retain more than a few disconnects and wince at memories of occasions when my mouth bellowed a whole lot of vingear and oil (mixing metaphors on purpose) than I imparted wisdom and grace. These matters, it seems to me, are all of a piece and Clifford is more important to my life and memory than my own warped priorities of my youth and early adulthood. Clifford's presence and patience are realities that I hold with appreciation and love.
I guess I have lived long enough to know that, as one of my seminary professors put it, "there are many things I don't know." My mother and I talk a good deal about our family's past and the importance we have placed in those experiences. Mother wants me to know how her parents and Clifford--among others--shaped her experiences and how they have subsequently given form to mine. I've come to think--I think--that much of that form is not so much words or even actions, but something like instincts, although that's not quite the right word. It's hard to explain, but something still that "is"--however ambiguously at a given moment--and won't ever leave me. Clifford played a large part in that "is" for me and I shall always love him, both for that, but moreso, just for being who he was. I don't know the Latin for rest in peace, but I'll guess and say "requiem et pacem." He would understand--