And I swear I’ve tried to be worthy of
The name they gave me when I was young
But I ain’t that pretty; I ain’t that brave
My kids have seen me cry
They should have given her name to my sister Marie
And that don’t mean a thing to you
That don’t mean a thing to you but it does to me
— Lori McKenna, “Lorraine”
My mother looked at me Saturday under the shining sun, and said to me, “You know, you have as much gray hair as your dad.”
Later that day, my uncle called me over to the table where he and my aunt were sitting. “How old are you?” “36” “See, he was three when we got married.” I thought maybe they were just trying to figure out the timeline, perhaps. But, no, he then tells me, “We were just talking about how much gray hair you have.” Um, thanks?
But it’s a fair comment. I started getting gray hair a while back, and never stopped. As I like to say, I’ve earned every bit of it honestly.
My family got together this weekend to return my grandfather to the Earth.
His funeral was held over a month ago, and on Saturday we gathered together to scatter his ashes at Camp Sumatanga near Gadsden, a place that was dear to him.
That picture at the top? My hand is whitened from the ashes of my grandfather.
When he died, I wasn’t really in a place to blog about it, but instead posted a link to an article that had been written about him only a week before his death. About the only comment I did make was about the fact that I am William Hitt, son of William Hitt, son of William Hitt.
My father talked about that some Saturday. His were bigger shoes to fill. While I have always been called by my middle name, he and his father were both Bill Hitt. For my dad, going into Etowah County and introducing yourself as Bill Hitt was really saying something.
I’m blessed that it’s not the same for me. I’m not called by the name, so I’m not measured by it, either.
But, Saturday, I couldn’t help measuring myself by it.
And I don’t know how I stand up. It’s hard not to get discouraged during a time of unemployment, but, in general, I’ve felt like I’ve done OK by the name David Hitt.
But William? Have I carried it in a way that would make my predecessors proud? Or that I feel is worthy of them? I don’t know.
The funny thing is, my grandfather was a Methodist minister and, in his other job working with juvenile delinquents, a de facto social worker and counselor. I’m a writer by vocation. But as I get older, the more I focus avocationally on finding my ministry and on putting myself in a place to do counseling. It’s not been intentional, and I hadn’t even thought about it until this weekend. But perhaps the name does have some pull.
It didn’t, help, though, when the minister who performed the scattering ceremony, an old friend of my grandfather who also performed his funeral, talked about there being William Hitts there, and how the name would live on after my grandfather.
And that’s why I mentioned the gray hair at the beginning of the post. Right now, I’m the last. It’s not impossible that I could continue the name, but with every day it becomes more unlikely. It’s also possible that one of my brothers could pass it along, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t feel like somewhat of a failure for the fact that I haven’t. And it saddens me.
I wanted to end, however, by sharing two things, the minister, Watt Washington said that stuck with me, and that belied somewhat the things I was feeling.
“There’s no point in worry about what you could have done, make sure you’re doing what you can.”
“If there are words of assurance, it would simply be two words: Look forward.”