| Elegy for an Only Son Shot Dead Far from Home |
I grew up with Ernie Arnold. During our childhood and adolescence, we attended the same church in New Orleans. Mrs.
Arnold was one of my mother's best friends. Ernie was an only child, just as I am, and we were both born late in our parents'
lives.
By the time we were in our mid-twenties, Ernie had come back to the city from a stint in the service and I decided to do
some match-making. I worked with a friend, Betty, and I thought the two of them would be a perfect match. I was right.
What I didn't know was what a short time they would have to share their lives.
Ernie and Betty married and, not long afterward, he accepted a job in Houston. Time passed. They became parents of a
beautiful baby girl. Betty enrolled in college to obtain her master's degree. Life was good. When Ernie was promoted and
transferred to Atlanta, Betty and the baby stayed behind to finish out the college semester. That's where she was when she
got the phone call.
Ernie had been murdered in a robbery in Atlanta. I could barely believe it when I heard the news. Arrangements were made
to have Ernie's body returned to New Orleans. Mr. Arnold asked me to go with him to the airport to pick up Betty and the baby
when they arrived from Houston. The image of Betty, holding her little daughter in her arms, walking down the concourse
toward us, is one that I will never forget. It's an image that is indelibly etched in my mind.
Eventually, many years later, Mr. and Mrs. Arnold returned to their hometown in Tennessee to live out their remaining years.
They kept in touch with my mother and she with them. Mrs. Arnold was the first to pass on, followed not too long thereafter
by her husband. My mom died in 2003, only a few days after we'd learned of Mr. Arnold's death.
I recently ran across this Times-Picayune newspaper article written by Les Brumfield. It's yellowed with age but, as I read
it, tears still sting my eyes and the pain is as sharp as it was that day at the airport, so many years ago. Mr. Brumfield was
not only a newspaper writer, he was a friend of the Arnold family. That fact shows in this poignant look into a parent's
greatest grief.....and a mother's valiant struggle to be brave.
Nancy
Arnold was one of my mother's best friends. Ernie was an only child, just as I am, and we were both born late in our parents'
lives.
By the time we were in our mid-twenties, Ernie had come back to the city from a stint in the service and I decided to do
some match-making. I worked with a friend, Betty, and I thought the two of them would be a perfect match. I was right.
What I didn't know was what a short time they would have to share their lives.
Ernie and Betty married and, not long afterward, he accepted a job in Houston. Time passed. They became parents of a
beautiful baby girl. Betty enrolled in college to obtain her master's degree. Life was good. When Ernie was promoted and
transferred to Atlanta, Betty and the baby stayed behind to finish out the college semester. That's where she was when she
got the phone call.
Ernie had been murdered in a robbery in Atlanta. I could barely believe it when I heard the news. Arrangements were made
to have Ernie's body returned to New Orleans. Mr. Arnold asked me to go with him to the airport to pick up Betty and the baby
when they arrived from Houston. The image of Betty, holding her little daughter in her arms, walking down the concourse
toward us, is one that I will never forget. It's an image that is indelibly etched in my mind.
Eventually, many years later, Mr. and Mrs. Arnold returned to their hometown in Tennessee to live out their remaining years.
They kept in touch with my mother and she with them. Mrs. Arnold was the first to pass on, followed not too long thereafter
by her husband. My mom died in 2003, only a few days after we'd learned of Mr. Arnold's death.
I recently ran across this Times-Picayune newspaper article written by Les Brumfield. It's yellowed with age but, as I read
it, tears still sting my eyes and the pain is as sharp as it was that day at the airport, so many years ago. Mr. Brumfield was
not only a newspaper writer, he was a friend of the Arnold family. That fact shows in this poignant look into a parent's
greatest grief.....and a mother's valiant struggle to be brave.
Nancy
Elegy for an Only Son Shot Dead Far from Home
by Les Brumfield
It is a small unpretentious home on Gen. Pershing. The philodendrons flanking the steps seem too big and out of place. That
may be, you think, because the people in the house are too busy to worry about them.
Velma answers the door herself, and you are a little surprised, but not terribly. You know that she is a practicing Christian
and an indefatigable lay worker in the Napoleon Avenue Methodist Church. Her faith is strong.
Inside, the house is warm and nicely furnished. You know without asking that the sketch about the sofa is Ernie. He was
their only child.
You find the friends you expected. They are strong church people---the kind from the old days---and they are close to the
Arnolds. There is grief in the red-rimmed eyes of the ladies, who disappear every now and then from their chairs in the dining
room into the bedrooms.
But Velma, short, bespectacled, motherly, talkative, lovable busy body that she is, is all about, as usual, seeing to things. She
answers the phone. She bustles into the kitchen. Now she is down the hallway and into a bedroom, where there might be
friends broken down with grief.
Later, you deliberately corner her in her tidy kitchen. What can we do? What can we do to help?
"Just being here....." she says.
"I know," you say, "But in a practical way, I mean?"
"I have to be the strong one," Velma says, "They were so close. Not......" she struggles to make you understand, "that I
wasn't close....." The grief almost shatters her brave mask.
Who would not have understood? Ernest and Ernest, Jr., father and only son.
Ernest, Jr. was twenty-eight years old. Now he is dead, shot by a robber.
They flew him in from Atlanta. His widow, Betty, and their 2 year old daughter have flown in from Houston.
Ernest, the father, flew in from business in Shreveport. A tragic family reunion.
Ernie worked for a franchise food chain. Two weeks ago, he was promoted, from Houston, to Atlanta. He left Betty, working
for a masters at Texas Southern, and his daughter behind. He was to send for them. Now, Ernie is dead. Another human
being made sure of that.
You can't help but wonder how much that robber in Atlanta took.
Have you ever loved anybody? A mother, a father, a wife, a husband, a son, a daughter.....anybody at all? If you have, you
know how much the robber took.
Velma strokes the head of the large, faithful dog sitting patiently beside her chair on the green carpet in the little house on
Gen. Pershing. "He gave us this dog," she says.
And Ernie's brave little mama fights back the tears.
by Les Brumfield
It is a small unpretentious home on Gen. Pershing. The philodendrons flanking the steps seem too big and out of place. That
may be, you think, because the people in the house are too busy to worry about them.
Velma answers the door herself, and you are a little surprised, but not terribly. You know that she is a practicing Christian
and an indefatigable lay worker in the Napoleon Avenue Methodist Church. Her faith is strong.
Inside, the house is warm and nicely furnished. You know without asking that the sketch about the sofa is Ernie. He was
their only child.
You find the friends you expected. They are strong church people---the kind from the old days---and they are close to the
Arnolds. There is grief in the red-rimmed eyes of the ladies, who disappear every now and then from their chairs in the dining
room into the bedrooms.
But Velma, short, bespectacled, motherly, talkative, lovable busy body that she is, is all about, as usual, seeing to things. She
answers the phone. She bustles into the kitchen. Now she is down the hallway and into a bedroom, where there might be
friends broken down with grief.
Later, you deliberately corner her in her tidy kitchen. What can we do? What can we do to help?
"Just being here....." she says.
"I know," you say, "But in a practical way, I mean?"
"I have to be the strong one," Velma says, "They were so close. Not......" she struggles to make you understand, "that I
wasn't close....." The grief almost shatters her brave mask.
Who would not have understood? Ernest and Ernest, Jr., father and only son.
Ernest, Jr. was twenty-eight years old. Now he is dead, shot by a robber.
They flew him in from Atlanta. His widow, Betty, and their 2 year old daughter have flown in from Houston.
Ernest, the father, flew in from business in Shreveport. A tragic family reunion.
Ernie worked for a franchise food chain. Two weeks ago, he was promoted, from Houston, to Atlanta. He left Betty, working
for a masters at Texas Southern, and his daughter behind. He was to send for them. Now, Ernie is dead. Another human
being made sure of that.
You can't help but wonder how much that robber in Atlanta took.
Have you ever loved anybody? A mother, a father, a wife, a husband, a son, a daughter.....anybody at all? If you have, you
know how much the robber took.
Velma strokes the head of the large, faithful dog sitting patiently beside her chair on the green carpet in the little house on
Gen. Pershing. "He gave us this dog," she says.
And Ernie's brave little mama fights back the tears.