Cousin Larry & Me

I went to the funeral home this afternoon for the visitation for my cousin, Larry, who died last week. I call him “Larry” although his actual name was Frederick Lawrence Miller. Since his dad was also named Fred, he went by “Larry” until after his father’s death. Then he became “Fred.” Of course, he’ll always be Larry to me.

Larry was less than a month older than me. We grew up together, as the photograph below, taken at out grandfather’s—Terrible Nick Temple’s—house one Easter when Larry and I were 3 or 4 years old, indicates. (Larry is on the left—I am on the right).

I suppose that Larry and I were as close as brothers until we went off to college—Larry to Morehead University in Eastern Kentucky and I to the University of Kentucky in Lexington. After that we went our separate ways.

In the last few years we only encountered one another maybe at Christmas and at family funerals. The last time we really talked was at the funeral of Larry’s mother, which I officiated, a few years ago. I remember sitting with Larry, my sister Debbie, and our cousin Glenda. Someone remarked, “We really have to stop getting together only at funerals.”

We all agreed and Larry—I think—said that, since his mother’s death, only my mother remained of the last generation. Then we would be attending the funerals of each other. Then he said, "I wonder which of us will go first?”

Larry’s question has now been answered.