From The Memoirs of Lora "A Time Gone By"

It is no secret—the family virtually disowned me after Grandmother died. The bottom line is that they resented me because Grandmother and I were so close, and that closeness we shared eventually led to my becoming heir to her millions. But the thing that gets under my craw is the fact that they didn’t want to spend any of their precious time alone with her, and in the end they expected her to give them what I had so rightfully earned. Sure, if they wanted a check endorsed or needed her signature to lock in some big deal, then they’d be all over her. But when it came down to who would take her to her doctor visits, to her little church functions, or her weekly Daughters of Southern Belles meetings, none of them wanted to take time out of their “hectic” day, as they put it, for dear old Mother Dear—especially once she started to become fretful and go on and on about some evil curse on the family.

I must admit, she did seem a little senile toward the end of her life, but who wouldn’t start forgetting things? My goodness, Mother Dear was well over eighty years old when she passed away in all her glory. Although she was quite wealthy, she was a very down-to-earth sorta woman. It was no secret that in Grandmother’s heyday she could drink and cuss a sailor under the table, not to mention the fact that she chain-smoked those dreadful Lucky Strike cigarettes.

Grandmother was born before the turn of the century and was full of fascinating stories. When she entered a room, she was like a breath of fresh air. Her smile would light up the room, and her witty conversations would dominate it as well. And Lord, don’t

let her start talking about the family. She’d go on and on about how we weren’t like everyone else. I remember when she once said to me, “…child, we’re different than most folks, that’s why I want you to write a story about our family. First of all, who is going to believe your great grandfather was some African High Priest—not to mention the family curse.” I explained to her that I was somewhat hesitant about helping her write her memoirs for I feared people would start thinking I was loony. She teasingly mocked Mae West’s smirk, look, and mannerism, then laughed in a raspy tone and replied. “We may be crazy, but we some crazy rich folks and people will listen. If not, hell, we’ll buy up all the darn books ourselves.”

I’ll never forget the night she passed away.  It was exactly seven months after Babs was murdered. That night it was raining cats and dogs, and the lightning bolts were so fierce they lit up the barren skies—as the old-timers would say, “the devil was whipping his wife.” But we on the other hand were miserable, for our dynasty was crumbling right in front of our eyes. This is the way it all happened. I was out at the ranch helping Grandmother write the last few chapters of her memoirs about our family. She asked me to get her a cup of tea “to warm her bones,” as she’d say, but when I returned from the kitchen she was gone…just that fast. At first I thought she had drifted off to sleep, as she so often did, yet when I attempted to wake her, she wouldn’t budge. I cried, cried, and cried. I recall hearing people say that when someone passes away in their sleep, a peaceful look appears stretched across their face. Well, now I know that serene look, and it will forever stay embedded in my mind as long as I live.

I remember quite well, that on the day we buried Grandmother, Park Street was flooded with reporters, friends, and well-wishers from miles around. You’d swear royalty had died. The Governor and all of the “who’s who” in the tobacco industry were there. I’m certain she would have been flattered ‘cause she loved being the center of attention. When we buried her in the brass-encrusted casket, she looked so tiny and petite—not at all like the statuesque woman I had grown up calling…Mother Dear. I was at a place in my life where no one could help me—no doctor, nobody. That’s when I went berserk!