Death and Differentiation of Self: On Writing an Obituary and a Memoir, Perhaps
William Bland Harrison Jr. Obituary
William Bland Harrison, Jr., 102, of Stamford, died on January 7, 2024 in his own home with his family and devoted helpers at his side. A graveside sunrise service will be held at 7:42 a.m. on Saturday, January 13, 2024 in Highland Memorial Cemetery. A memorial service will be held later that day at 3:00 p.m. at Central Presbyterian Church.
He was born on April 25, 1921, the second child and only son to Leanora and W.B. (Dub) Harrison Sr.. He was the older brother of Nancy Ruth (Russell) and took that job seriously. Bland graduated from Stamford High School and attended Texas A & M University, where he graduated in 1942 (Class of ‘43) and commissioned as a 2nd Lt in the U.S. Army. He married his life-long love, Sophia Ann Nelson, on May 10, 1943. After completing training at Ft. Polk and Ft. Sill he departed for Europe to fight with the 771st Field Artillery Battalion and served as a forward observer and aerial spotter directing fire support. He also served as Battalion communication officer and received the Bronze Star for his actions in the Battle of the Bulge. The 771st Field Artillery Battalion drew the praise of General Patton and was assigned to support the 3rd Army for the remainder of the European campaign. His stories of WWII include many miracles he attributed to God’s grace and work in his life. It would appear that his good character and bridge skills were also at play. Bland was humble about his military service and frequently stated “I was just doing my duty to our country”. The Red Cross notified him that his daughter, Victoria Ann, was born on January 13, 1945.
Bland and Sophia returned to Stamford, TX in 1947 to raise their family. Their son, William Bland Harrison III, (Dub) was born on July 28, 1947. Bland helped his father work the family farms and businesses until he began his career with the Agricultural Stabilization and Conservation Service (ASCS) offices at district and state levels. The ASCS was an agency of the US Department of Agriculture that became the Farm Service Agency in 1994. He served as State Executive Director of ASCS for US Department of Agriculture, by appointment of the President, from July 1972 – June, 1973, when he lived in Bryan/College Station. He and Sophia returned to build the home they loved on the fairway between the 6th and 7th holes of the Stamford Country Club. Bland was a talented golfer. He would never brag about his golf game but Sophia would! Bland was a loyal fan of the Stamford Bulldogs and Texas Aggies. He was a lifelong member of Central Presbyterian Church where he served as Clerk of the Session for many years. He loved his church family and had a very special relationship with previous ministers, Jerry Boles, Ron Holloman, and Kelly Pigott.
Bland is preceded in death by his beloved wife, Sophia, and her brother, James K. Brady Nelson and his first wife, Audrey Nelson; his parents, Leanora and William Bland (Dub) Harrison, Sr.; his sisters, Bobbie Nell and Nancy (Norris) Russell; and by a host of other family and friends who lived on in his memory.
He is survived by Victoria Harrison (Jay Wehnert); granddaughter, Elizabeth Moreland -Mason (Jeffrey Mason) and children: Sara Mason (Jacob Stinnett) and David Mason; by William Bland Harrison III (Dub) and his wife, Leslie, and children: Wendy (Slade Nicholson) and children, Kaley (Cameron Kapke), Kameryn Mathis, and Jonathan (Megan) Nicholson; Will Harrison IV (Whitney) and sons, Jody, Jud, and Jake; and by Wesley Harrison (Kislah Presnall) and children, Jeremiyah, Jessie, Richard, and Wyatt. He is also survived by his nephew Dr. Norris Russell and family, Jeremy (Sally) Russell, Ainslee, Gracie, Simon and Samuel Russell and by his brother-in-law’s widow, Eddie Mattei Nelson along with his niece, Felicia Nelson. He would want mention as well of Barbara Harrison (widow of his cousin, Bob Harrison) as a special friend and neighbor. Many people in Stamford were special to Bland, none more than Jane Hodges, Minnie Camacho, and Shonda and Gary Apple who helped him live the last years of his life at home as independently as possible.”
The Obituary I did not Write:
“The obituary I did not write would have included what may be part of a memoir someday:
William Bland Harrison Jr. returned from the Battle of the Bulge, a 25-year-old man, to his
wife and squalling 18-month-old baby. He moved everyone to a small frame house where he helped his father farm in the 2nd year of a 7-year drouth. He and his father nearly lost the family land until Dad begun to work with ASCS. By the time his son (B. July, 1947) was 1 year old, his lovely wife had developed Type 1 brittle diabetes and nearly died. At the same time, his beloved grand-father-in-law, mayor of the small farm town died, leaving my mother’s grandmother a distraught widow, dependent on my mother. There was no time or energy for raising children. After Dad took the job with ASCS, he traveled during the week and was exhausted and stressed at home on weekends. I lost myself in books and school. My brother stumbled into trouble at every turn. My parents did their best to have a life with friends and travel and football. They began to save $$ as a young couple, no matter how many things they sacrificed. We were the last family to have a tv set in our family and friends. My brother and I were extremely fortunate to have local grandparents and aunt and uncle who pinch hit for our parents. Mother had terrible insulin reactions and I was her “support animal,” the only one she would not fight to take orange juice. My brother ran for the hills. Given all the forces and factors that Bowen theory helped me see, my father did the best he could, as did Mother. “
The Longer Picture of Working on Differentiation of Self
In the years before he died, I wrote Dad about how I came to understand the challenges in our young family. I spoke to him about them. But he did not forgive himself nor offer that understanding to my brother or to me. It really did not matter to me. The perspective protected me. It still does matter to my brother…how Dad treated him and spoke of him. My brother takes consolation in knowing that he did the rights things as a son.
It was difficult to get my father to talk about life before or after WWII. It was as if life began there. Given enough time…and golf games we watched together on TV, it was possible to learn that Dad knew where there were dinosaur tracks in the creek bed near Seymour…where there were arrow heads…that he identified with the Indians, not the cowboys…that he admired Mahatma Ghandi…that he wanted to play pro-golf but wasn’t good enough…that he liked blues music….that he drove from coast to coast with 4 buddies after high school graduation & slept in local jails for cheap beds on the road. I wish I had known him sooner! He and I might have enjoyed each other.
Dad said that the psychiatrist they consulted about me when I was terribly depressed and was beginning to avoid family during the end of my first marriage told them “Treat her like she is dead.” So he did for many years. Mother responded to my efforts to reconnect in 1975 when I began to work with Bowen theory, but Dad did not. If I live long enough to write a memoir, there are so many steps….a long, strange trip indeed…involved in working on being more of a self in the intense triangle with my parents. Some of them are colorful and might
be interesting for people to read. Anyone could probably write one and each one would be
unique.
There is more to the picture, of course, after Mother died. My father developed bladder cancer in the year after Mother died (2015) and lived with a urinary catheter until his death. Nine years it was. That did not stop him from going to church, going to town, going to the farm and local funerals. It was arthritis that increased his disability until he was not able to do much of anything by himself. I came to admire my father’s ability to adapt as I watched him take slow, determined steps on a walker when walking became difficult..then impossible. I watched him insist upon standing at the sink to wash his hands before a meal or to brush his teeth after each meal when he had to use a wheelchair to get there. Those were heroic to me.
He had two helpers, 24/7, who did what he could not do for himself but worked very hard not to do for him what he could. My brother visited with Dad most every morning about football, politics, the family investments, the farm, and local events. When Dub had something else important to do…his own medical appointments, a rodeo, work, Dad would complain and call him names to anyone who would listen. I drove out once a month from Houston (7 hours each way) after Mother’s death in 2014 plus trips for emergencies. He would complain that I was there too much…that I was there not enough. There were a multitude of opportunities to define in word and deed what was important to me.
Dad had five opportunities to die which he did not take. I rescued him the first time by calling 911 and getting him to the local ER with a severe infection. Trips to the local hospital and IV antibiotics kept him alive, longer than he wanted to live. Dad never lost his ability to think, but toward the end he could not talk clearly. It was a blessing that he and my brother’s daughter, Wendy, read his favorite Bible passages out loud together on the last day he could speak, though his voice was weak and slurred.
I think that he had strokes during the last week of his life and finally “got to leave” (A reference to a fine song by Howe Gelb on his Snow Angels album), after 5 days in coma. His loved ones were present, individually, and then together for the 23rd Psalm and a prayer around his bed. He could see his granddaughters, his favorites, at his side during the first day of dying, but he could not speak. On day two of dying, he could respond to touch and flinch. Hospice gave him morphine and Ativan on the third day when he became agitated, and he could not respond to anything or anyone after the third day. His labored brain stem breathing went on for two more days. His eyes turned golden on the 5th day, and he took his last breath.
During those days, I said things I had said and written many times. “You have done a good job. Thank you for keeping Mother alive for us. We will miss you, but you have prepared us well to go on with life. We won’t spend all your money. Don’t wait for the Aggies to win. You can go.” And things I had not said: “Can you see the stars? Can you see the light? And when he was frightened…” Dad, It’s ok. You are dying. it is okay.”
We sat with Dad’s body for about an hour after he died and then his helpers bathed him and dressed him, exactly as he instructed them to do before the funeral director came and took his body. I was grateful that Dad lay in state at the funeral home from Wednesday to Friday evening. It was a comfort to me to sit with his body, straighten his tie and pat on him.
This is the picture that is not in the video memorial that my grandniece created nor in the obituary I wrote.
Is it possible to write an obituary that is factual but realistic? That does not demonize a person, like this obituary does
ndtv.com/world-news/us-woman-pens-scathing-obituary-about-violent-hateful-and-cruel-mother-4747633
And does not glorify a person, like my family wanted to do with Dad. Can an obituary capture the complexity of a life or does that await a well done memoir?
The Presbyterian preacher who preached Dad’s funeral service grew up with us. “Little Jerry Boles” (now 70) was the son of “Big Jerry”, our pastor in my youth. Jerry would take the youth of the church “to the mountains” every summer where he had a cabin north of Taos. Jerry sat with my brother and me the night before Dad’s funeral and waxed poetic about Dad as an influence in his life. Dub and I stopped him with stories of the real Harrison family as well as stories of Dad’s public accomplishments and how well he was loved and devoted he was to Mother’s care. At the funeral service, Jerry called upon the mountain as a metaphor in 2 thoughtful and lovely ways. He recalled the trips “to the mountains” in Taos and remarked that everyone had their own view of the mountains, their own experience. And so it was of Bland Harrison. He also said that Bland had moved from the side of the mountain we could all see to the other side…the side we know is there but cannot see where he joined all of those we can no longer see who love him.
It occurs to me that my memoir may begin with Dad’s death. There are so many more memories of my childhood and youth than were at my disposal when he was alive. That is a surprise.