My brother, Archie Garth, died recently. He was a widower who lived alone and who struggled with his share of health issues. Still, his death was unexpected—shockingly so. Here are some things you should know about him.
His full name was Archie Eugene Garth Jr., and he was named after our father. Like our dad, Archie was a quiet man, but he was also a listener. He gave you his full attention, always.
He was the most kind and gentle man I’ve ever known. This isn’t just family talk. His kindness was pure and absolute. Caring oozed from him. He didn’t tease. He was devoid of snark. I doubt he knew what the word meant.
He loved his family and was absolutely silly about my daughters, his twin nieces, and they were equally silly about him. It was a mutual love fest. They adored him, and he them.
He lived in the city all of his adult life but preferred country life. He often talked about moving to a small town.
He was a St. Louis Cardinals baseball fan and a Green Bay Packers football fan, following the teams faithfully for decades, first on radio, then television. To my knowledge, he never saw a live game.
He was nine years my senior and my only sibling. He taught me how to drive in a 1964 Ford Galaxy with a three speed on the column. His patience proved boundless with my struggles to properly manipulate the clutch. I eventually learned, as he assured me I would.
He was a skilled hunter and fisherman in his youth. His support for rod and gun sports never faded, but it had been decades since he was an active participant. We did fish together recently, only he didn’t fish. He spent the day in the boat but didn’t touch a rod.
He was lefthanded, the only southpaw in the family, and hands down was the best shot I have ever seen. Rifle, pistol or shotgun, he simply didn’t miss. It was a gift.
He always carried a pocketknife and kept it sharpened.
He also always carried a substantial amount of cash, always the same amount, folded and tucked discreetly into his wallet. I know why but won’t say so here. And it was a good reason.
He left home after high school to try business school, but it wasn’t for him. He spent 40 years working in the auto parts industry. His customers were loyal, as he was to them.
He was a man of faith who believed strongly in the power of prayer but wasn’t a regular churchgoer. I’ve no doubt his place in heaven is secure. If not, then none of us are safe.
He expected to die alone. He had no fear but a stoic acceptance. “It comes to everyone,” he told me a few months ago.
He enjoyed television and especially liked Western movies and sports.
He was politically conservative but humanly liberal. He believed in fairness and was troubled by suffering and stopped it where he could.
He sometimes seemed to have more than his share of trouble. Sadness and heartache recently followed him. A couple of years ago, following a lengthy and challenging illness, his wife of 49 years died. The next day, he suffered a stroke. Dark days followed. His condition stabilized, then plateaued. His speech was halting; his handwriting skills were crippled. Physical therapy was recommended. He was doubtful. Discouraged. Depressed. His sister-in-law, my wife, Katy, whom he also adored, encouraged him. Therapy will help, she told him. Please try. Her encouragement helped keep him going. He regained full ability to write and to speak. When he completed the program, he wrote his therapists a thank-you note. They wept with joy.
Then last year, on Christmas Eve morning following a short but brutal illness, his son died.
We saw each other shortly before his death at a family gathering. It was a delightful day, and when we said our goodbyes, he said he felt good, better than he had in a long time. He hugged his nieces, his sister-in-law and me. We’d long abandoned shaking hands. My brother was a hugger. We promised to see each other soon and would have. He followed us out of the driveway, then my wife and I remembered we’d forgotten something and had to turn around. He pulled around our car, waved, and headed south toward his home in Southaven, Mississippi.
We lived in different states but communicated almost daily. When I failed to hear from him for a couple of days, I became concerned. The police were contacted and asked to check on him. They did. It was judged natural causes. Details remain a mystery.
The next day, my wife and I traveled to his home to do the things that the day following a death requires. Later that afternoon, standing in his kitchen, I opened the lid of a small, chest-type freezer. It contained four frozen beef patties and a box of fish sticks. My brother loved food, but he was not a gourmet. I picked up the box of fish sticks and shook it. It was about half empty. I showed it to a young relative sitting nearby. “I told Archie these things would kill him,” I said. She seemed shocked. I returned the box to the freezer and closed the lid.
“Why did you say that?” she asked sharply.
“Relax,” I explained with a smile. “It’s a brother joke.”
I miss him.
Readers may contact Gary Garth at editor@kentuckymonthly.com