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This site is dedicated to the memories of my Mom and my brother, Brad. They left us too soon but I know we will see them again some day very soon. I have heard it said that some people come into our lives and quickly go and others come into our lives and stay a while longer, leaving footprints in our heart that never go away. That is what my mom and brother did. Brad died September 15, 1989 and Mom died August 15, 2000. Brad was 18 and Mom was 50. They may be gone but they are not forgotten. To live in the hearts we leave behind is not to die.
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This Is One Of The Last Pictures Taken Of My Mom...
This picture was taken on July 16, 2001, in the Great Smoky Mountains less than a month before Mom died. Notice the pic below of Brad and Jamie. Both pictures were taken in exactly the same spot. What precious memories...
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This Is One Of The Last Pictures Taken Of Brad...
This picture was taken on Labor Day weekend in 1989, about 2 weeks before Brad died. Dad, Mom, me, Brad and Brad's girlfriend, Jamie, all went to the Great Smoky Mountains. It was a perfect vacation and one that I will treasure always.
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Below are two eulogies written by my brothers that they read at Mom's funeral. Scott wrote "Mom" and Mike wrote "The Photograph". They are both beautiful tributes to a beautiful woman.
MOM
I would like to tell you a story about a topic that was never discussed in our home. This story is 31 years in the making, but I'll try to keep it shorter.
I met Kiva almost thirty years ago. Dad loaded Teresa, Mike, and me in the back of his Scout and headed for someplace called Handy to meet her. It must have been a surprise visit because we didn't make it all the way to her house; we met and stopped on Moffet Lane somewhere between Harrell Road and where Pastor Nelson now lives. I was only five years old , but she seemed nice enough.
A short time later she married my Dad and became my Step-Mother.
At some point, and I don't remember the year, a very important meeting was held out in the yard by Mike, Teresa and me. When our plan was devised, Mike was sent with wild Daisies and dandelions. Not because he was the bravest, but because he was the youngest. With his handful of wild flowers he was sent to test the waters of calling her mom.
By the time Brad and then Jerry was born, words like Step- and Half- no longer applied to our home. We didn't use them and they weren't accepted from anyone else. Someone would ask her who were her children and she would answer: Jerry, Brad, Mike, Teresa and Scott. "No, which are your real Children" "Oh, well, that would be Jerry, Brad, Mike, Teresa and Scott" If you were an Aunt, Uncle or Cousin, then you were an Aunt, Uncle or Cousin - no question.
Oh, what a floodgate of mothering we opened. She began to distribute excessive worry, lots of cookies, cakes, and pie, lots of love, and Oh how she could lecture. Don't let the fact that we're all adults make you think that any of these things stopped. She only got better at it.
(I profess to this day that it was always Joe or Ricky, it was never my fault)
You also need to know and most of you probably already know, that the food, love, and lectures were not just reserved for her children. Despite your age, relationship or social standing you were subject to cookies, beans and cornbread, or a good heart to heart motherly talking to; depending on which she felt you needed most. I will miss all three. I still need all three.
Someone came through the funeral home the other night, introduced themselves and asked who I was. I said, "I'm Scott, Kiva's oldest son." This person said "Well, you're not her real son" I know this person meant no harm, but it was obvious that his definition of "real" was not the same definition that Mom, her children and her grandchildren had of "real". I would have liked to see any of you, last week, tell her any of those nine grandchildren weren't her real grandchildren. On second thought I wouldn't want to watch. I would have rather been in the next room praying for you. You'd needed it.
I have worked with so many young people who don't have anyone to provide those things a real mother does. I won't feel guilty, but I do feel blessed, because I had two.
My consolation is that the two things mom loved, not in this present world, she now has; the Lord she loved and my brother, Brad, who died 11 years ago.
- J. Scott Branam
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The Photograph
She always carried that camera everywhere she'd go,
so that every special moment she could catch on film to show.
T'hose boxes of pictures filled her house, they say,
I think she had a picture from nearly every day.
That fourth-grade football game, the trip we took out west,
a birthday party, a get-together, and you know about the rest.
She loved her family and she loved her friends,
and she cherished those moments caught on film.
A box of pictures to her were dear, 'I'm a little odd," she'd say.
For every picture she had a story and telling them could take all day.
But the pictures are not where it stopped you see,
she collected mementos from you and me.
'Remember that trip to Florida we took in'78?"
"Yes, you were ten years old and those shorts are packed away."
“But remember when I was six years old and had that broken arm?"
“Your cast is up there on the left, next to that old toy farm."
Her garage was a museum, a sort of monument you see.
No scrapbook could be large enough to hold her memories.
T'hat garage was barely large enough to hold the toys, the shirts, the dress,
Those things, they meant the world to her, though to some it seemed a mess.
"When I am gone", she used to say, "Just throw it all away."
"It's probably just junk to you, but for now my memories have to stay."
Photography was certainly her love, but not her only art,
She loved to cook and loved to bake and did with all her heart.
You could never walk into her house without a meal awaiting,
or some sort of sweet delight that was in the oven baking.
That glass of cocoa being made as I walked up the hill.
Those beans and combread in a cup that she'd tell you not to spill.
When dinner was the thing that was someone's need
She'd be there to lend her hand and everyone she'd feed.
It wasn't just nutrition she gave you when she cooked,
But in that food was a lot of love, and her heart if you would only look.
A helping hand she always gave, a way to honor God.
Passing out food up and down the street, to her was never odd.
Her family and friends, they meant a lot, but the grandkids made her glow,
"How are they doing?", "What's going on?", she always wanted to know.
Her husband, her kids, grandkids and friends they made her want to stay,
but the thought of her child gone so long came back most every day.
"I wish that I could see him again, in heaven with my Lord."
"But I don't want to leave you all," was something commonly heard.
Her love for us was always true and serving of God was fun.
She longed to see her God, you see, and again to talk to her son.
Today I know that she has laid her crown at the feet of her dear Lord,
and is talking to the Son somewhere along those crystal shores.
- Michael Branam
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