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Mary, Queen of the Hills
How my father was able to realize peace after his sister’s death
My father had a sister, though he hardly speaks of her. Anyway, how could he remember much, he being all of four years, three months, and eight days when she died.
On Friday, February 28, 1964, Mary Salina Ramsburg left this life. There are facts about that day that we know from history, from collected data. The high temperature near the town where she was born was 28 degrees Fahrenheit that day, with snow and ice. Johnson was president, and had just begun his war on poverty a little over a month before. Appalachia’s mono-economy was tanking, technology leaving fewer jobs in the coal industry, and many were leaving the area to seek jobs in far off cities. It was also a leap year.
Other things about that day — about Mary Salina — we simply can not know. The color of her eyes, for instance. Or the sound of her laugh. The feel of her touch. These things remain mysteries — mysteries that have plagued my father all these years.
The day Mary Salina was born, my grandfather would drive out of the dirt road on which he lived through ice-covered streets, a mix of adrenaline and excitement no doubt taking over his body. Several hours later, he would return to their modest home with tears in his eyes, full of sorrow.
