Remnants of a Life

We went to see Byrnes Hollow several times when I was a kid. My dad told us stories of growing up there, pointing out all the different places where some of those events happened. Some of those stories were the last memories that my dad would hold on to, the last remnants of his life that his mind would lose. Towards the end of his life, just to engage him, I tried to get him to talk about some of the things he had related to us years ago, but it was difficult. He had memories of them, I knew, because I could mention them and he would begin to talk about them, sometimes coherently, many times not.  I think that after a certain point his mind just became a patchwork of memories, and too many frames of references had deteriorated away keeping him from making sense of any of his remaining memories.

Of all the things my dad related to me regarding those memories, two things stand out to me. The first was the poverty of his childhood. He never let us forget how hard life had been for him and his family growing up during The Great Depression. The other was his admiration for his mother. He loved his mother, he respected her, and he admired her; I never once heard him say a derogatory remark about her.

Excerpt from A Life Well Stolen

Chapter One, continued

When we were kids, he took us to see that childhood home, though by that time the building was long gone and so were all the rest of his relative’s houses. Besides a few bushes that might have once been part of a yard, a few planks and a lone chimney at the top of the hill were the only evidence that any homes had ever been there.

“Was this your house?” we asked him, referring to those few lonely remains.

“No, that was my uncle’s house,” he said. “He was an ill-tempered fellow, and he was fond of the bottle, so we stayed away from him most of the time.”

“What was like it like growing up here?” I asked him.

They were very poor, he said. They had no running water and no electricity. They lived off of the land, trapping or hunting for their food and canning their own home grown vegetables.

Surviving was hard work during The Great Depression. There were no jobs, so they did what they had to do.  It was a strenuous life and it wore people out. Like his father, who, according to my dad, just gave up and left one day, leaving my grandmother to raise their family on her own. My dad said he didn’t know how his mother had managed, but somehow she had.

He spoke often of his admiration for his mother. She was a hard working woman who raised five boys and one girl on her own during the worst economic times this country has ever seen. She was tough as nails, very stern, intolerant of misbehavior and quick to unleash punishment for any wrongdoing.  It was her way or the highway, she often said, a philosophy my dad adopted for himself later on in life. Her character left an indelible impression on my dad. His father also left an impression, just not a positive one.  Both parents shaped his personality as he adopted the characteristics that gave his mother her fortitude, and adapted against the traits that he believed lent to his father’s failures.

The Big Man from the Holler

I don’t know what age I was when I discovered that my dad was the big man around the county. I think I was around six or seven when he was promoted to management, and it was a few years later that he was promoted to senior manager of his division. He had hundreds of people, who made very good money, working for him, and hundreds more waiting in line for the opportunity to be one of his employees. Needless to say, people showed him a tremendous amount of respect.

At least to his face, but I’ll get into that later.

In this section of the book, I write about my dad’s manner of speech. I have to confess, and some may disagree, but I think that by the time I came around, he’d lost most of his North Carolina accent.  To my ear, there were only a few words that gave away his origins.  My mom was a different story; she never did lose her accent, and there was no mistaking it. I’m certain her choice of words and her pronunciation remained the same her entire life. To her, we were the ones that talked funny.

One of my favorite words that they used frequently was Hollow. But that’s not how they pronounced it.

Excerpt from A Life Well Stolen

Chapter One, continued

I knew from any early age that my dad was different from my friends’ dads, and it wasn’t that he had more money than them. It was the way people around there treated him.  They spoke to him with a level of respect that others didn’t seem to receive. I heard the word “sir” frequently, and when they addressed him it was rarely by his first name. It was always Mr. Byrnes. It made me proud to walk alongside him and be introduced as his son.  I didn’t know then that a big reason why he received that treatment was because he was one of the top managers at the largest and highest paying employer in the county, and many of those contacts I witnessed were from his employees or people who wanted to be his employees.

But that wasn’t the only way my dad was different. He also seemed to talk unlike any of my friends’ dads. For example, he did a lot of reckoning and fixing, such as “I reckon I’ll fix the fence today,” or “I'm fixing to go to the store.” None of my friends’ dads talked that way, nor did they say “out yonder” like my dad did when he really meant “over there.” They also didn’t call animals, ding-a-lings, like my dad did frequently. And when my friends’ dads got upset, they cussed and swore like any hell bound normal person around there would do. My dad yelled things like, “Ah, Foot!” or “Dad-Jim-it!

He was different, and I figured out after a while that it had a lot to do with where he was from.  He’d grown up in the hills of North Carolina, in a place he affectionately called Byrnes Hollow. But that’s not how he said it. When he pronounced “Hollow” it came out as “Holler.”

            “Why did they call it that?” I asked him, finding the name curious. “Why ‘Holler’?”

When he explained it to me, I noticed how his face brightened and how the corners of his mouth pulled up, as if the telling of it amused him despite his attempt to hide it. “All of the Byrnes families lived on the same hill,” he said. “There were no phones back then, so if you needed to talk to one of us, you just went out to the yard and hollered.  Everyone who lived in those parts could hear the Byrnes hollering for each other so often that it eventually just came to be known as Byrnes Holler.”

That was how my dad told it. Of course, I’ve since learned that they actually lived in a hollow, not a “holler”, as many people from that area of the country pronounce the word. Funny thing is, my dad never admitted to the joke.

Rich or Poor?

How do I begin this?

As I wrote this book, that’s the question I kept coming back to time and time again, and draft after draft. I couldn’t decide. I wanted to introduce my dad and show you who he was and where he came from. I wanted you to know the person that he was before Alzheimer’s stole it all away. So I wrote pages and pages of where my dad grew up, bits of our family history in that area. I went into detail about his early childhood, meeting my mom, and their early marriage. But in the end, though I was very attached to that part of the book, I decided it had little to do with the story I was telling. I removed around 80 or 90 pages, and rewrote the entire first few chapters, condensing everything down. You need to understand who my dad was and where he came from, but I want to get you to the meat of the story. Hopefully, I accomplished that.

So where to begin? 

Since my story has much to do with my dad’s wealth, I decided to start with the question I often asked myself as a child.

Are we rich or poor?

Excerpt of A Life Well Stolen

Chapter One beginning…

By the time my dad’s life was stolen he had become a multi-millionaire.  His net worth at that time would have been considered a fortune to some and pocket change to others. Many people that knew Russell Byrnes said he was rich, but whether or not he was is debatable and subjective. From my point of view, for the lifestyle that he led, I would say he was well off.

When I was a kid my dad had yet to become a millionaire but he did have quite a bit more wealth than the majority of the people where we lived. I say that now, but I didn’t know that then. I don’t remember being better off than most. In fact, I thought we were poor. We lived in an old log cabin and I remember many times eating pinto beans and cornbread or creamed corn and biscuits for weeks at a time because my dad said we didn't have enough money for food. I remember my younger sisters having to wear hand-me-downs from our older sisters and me getting clothes only once a year, at the start of the school year and only because my old clothes no longer fit.  I remember making my own toys because we rarely received them. When I looked around at my friends, it seemed so many of them had so much. They had new clothes or new toys frequently. They seemed to have all the latest electronics, video games, and sports equipment.  So when people said we were rich, I had to scratch my head because but I sure didn’t see it.

But my dad did. He saw it because he was driving the cash buggy and he held the reins to his finances in a death grip. My mom, Catherine Byrnes, tried to get him to let her drive every once in a while, but my dad wouldn’t allow it.  She could suggest which direction they went, but he would do the driving. She was just there for the ride, as we all were.

I also know now that a significant portion of his income was going toward savings and investments. You had to put away every penny you could, he told us, because you never knew what tomorrow would bring. He knew that first hand because he'd grown up during The Great Depression.  His family suffered so much more than we did the few measly times we had to eat pinto beans or creamed corn, or the times we didn't get new clothes or new toys.  Not often, but occasionally he went without meals because there just was no food. He frequently went without shoes and very rarely received any new clothing. Compared to how he grew up, for us hand-me-downs and the occasional poor man’s meal were small sacrifices for the security he wanted to provide for our family. 

Protecting a Legacy

At the end of our fight, we realized what a battle it had been and how unfair it was that our dad lost everything. We were amazed at how easy it had been for the person to betray him and steal away everything, and we were shocked at how little protection the law provided Alzheimer’s victims.We knew we weren’t alone. We knew from talking to others in similar situations that there were many others who had become victimized in a similar manner. We also knew from reading the news that there were many victims out there. But we also figured out that there are things that can be done to avoid what happened to our dad. We wanted to tell our story, to share what we learned. That’s why I wrote this book.

Excerpt from A Life Well Stolen

End of Preface

That’s what happened to my dad, even though he had prepared himself for just that scenario and believed that his life savings was protected. He believed his estate plan was foolproof and iron tight, but he was wrong.  Many people think the same as him. They work their whole lives and make plans to protect their life savings in exactly the same manner as my dad did. They assume they are protected, but they are not, any more than he was.

But it doesn’t have to be that way. I know that because we figured that out through all of this. My dad lost everything, but his loss can serve to teach others and help them avoid the same fate that he suffered. That is why I felt compelled to tell his story. I want to show how it all happened and what drove the person who betrayed his trust to commit such an atrocious deed. I want others to know the awful treachery that transpired at nearly the end of my dad’s life so that they can defend themselves and their loved ones against those that seek to gain from taking advantage of another’s vulnerabilities.

My dad's life was well stolen, by illness and betrayal, but nobody else’s life has to be. There was a way my dad could have safeguarded himself and his legacy. There is a way that others suffering from Alzheimer’s or any form of dementia can preserve their own legacy, whether it is millions of dollars, thousands, or only a few sentimental belongings. Whatever it may be, there is a way to protect it, and it’s really very simple. 

The Law is Behind the Times

Sometimes we live in a fantasy world by thinking that just because something is immoral that automatically makes it illegal.  That was the case with us. Someone had stolen everything from our dad. This had been done at a time when he suffered from advanced Alzheimer’s. His will, his living trust, and his IRA beneficiaries had been changed at a time when he couldn’t always remember who his beneficiaries were. He had trouble finding a fork in his own kitchen, but yet drastic changes were made to his estate planning, giving one person control of every dime he owned.  That’s just wrong. What person can say that it’s not?  It had to be illegal. That’s what we thought, at least.

But we were wrong.

Everything was taken from my dad at a time when he couldn’t comprehend what was happening, but the manner in which it was done was all technically legal.

Excerpt from A Life Well Stolen

Preface Continued

Soon after that day, I came up with my share of the money our lawyers had asked for and my sisters put in their part. Our battle continued, and two months later we reached a settlement with the person who had robbed our dad.  It was a small victory, really, but we had at least recouped part of what was taken from him.

Nevertheless, the victory tasted bitter to me.  Justice had been to me what it was all about and that hadn’t been served. I knew that this was surely happening to many others, caused by a shortcoming in our legal system, and since my dad hadn’t received justice, I knew others wouldn’t either. We had won something for our dad but, by settling, we hadn't changed anything and the very thing that had happened to our dad and our family would happen to others.

All because of something one of our lawyers had said to us right before we agreed to settle.

“The law is behind the times,” she’d said, and it was true.

 Alzheimer’s was relatively unknown a few years ago, yet we’ve learned a great deal about the disease in a short amount of time and the legal system hasn’t kept pace. Those suffering from this disease are left unprotected and easy targets because the law allows for moments of competency in legal matters such as changing a will or beneficiary designations. These moments can be as short as a few minutes as long as there is a witness to verify an aptitude that any Alzheimer’s expert will tell you does not exist in advanced levels of the disease.  And, the burden of proof lies not with that witness to prove this moment of competency but with those that have been affected to prove otherwise; and in doing so they must embark on a possibly futile effort to prove that the witness was either mistaken or dishonest. Since the law offers little to no protection, this problem will likely continue unabated, and I think that is a great injustice to all of those who are victims of this disease or will become so.

Feeling Powerless

It had been dark when I woke, and I sat up in bed for a long time just thinking about everything; I couldn’t keep the dark thoughts at bay. My wife was sound asleep the entire time. She didn’t know that I was awake or how I felt just then, and she wouldn't know until she’d read the section below. I envied the peace she felt, and I dreaded having to soon tell her just how dour our situation was.  I think it took me a couple of hours before I could sleep again and by that time it was already starting to get light outside.

Over the five years of our fight for our dad, this was the lowest point for me. I would start to come out of it this very day as I spent the holiday with my wife and kids and realized that family was all I needed to be happy in this life.

Excerpt from A Life Well Stolen

Preface Continued

I looked over at my wife.  She was sleeping peacefully, unaware of the inner turmoil I was experiencing at that moment. I had asked so much of her and she had agreed without hesitation.  He’s your dad, she had said.  You have to do what is right.  I’ll support you no matter what. And she had, without ever complaining. Not even once. But I realized then that it had been too much to ask of her, and too much to ask her to risk. There was so much she had wanted for us, for our children.  All those hopes and dreams for our future were uncertain now, I thought to myself, and probably would have to be forgotten. It wasn’t fair to them, I knew then, and that realization gave me such an overwhelming sense of guilt I wanted to run away and hide from it all.

What had I done?

What had we all done?

I wondered if my sisters felt the same.  Their spouses had agreed to fight this as well and in turn jeopardized the welfare of their families. Did my sisters ever feel any remorse for the risks they placed their own families in? Did they ever regret starting this losing battle we were in, having spent so much money only to have failed?

I lay back down, tried to sleep but couldn’t. I tossed and turned, trying unsuccessfully to dispel my feelings of remorse for what I had caused my family to go through and trying to control my anger at what had been done to my dad.

After a long while, I’m not sure how long, I somehow eventually fell back asleep, saddened by the loss of my dad and completely resigned to an overwhelming feeling of powerlessness to do anything about what had happened to him. If I had been in the courtroom, I would have told our attorneys to pack it up.  I would have given up the fight. I would have been done with it all.

            But I wasn’t in the courtroom.

            Instead, I was at home and in bed where I slept for another couple of hours.  When I awoke, I put my worries away and helped my wife prepare our Thanksgiving dinner. At the table, we each said what we were thankful for and everyone mentioned the family among other things. I carved the turkey as memories of watching my dad carving turkeys with an old 1970’s electric knife wandered through my mind. Then we ate and the food was delicious, all of it. Afterwards, as I played with my kids and enjoyed my time with my family, I realized that having my loved ones with me was all that really mattered in life and was everything I would ever need.

The Price for Justice

I remember this day so well. It was Thanksgiving morning and I should have been looking forward to the day, but I wasn’t. I couldn’t think of anything other than how bleak our future seemed. I was mad at the injustice of my dad’s situation and frustrated at our inability to do anything about it, and I was missing Dad.  But beyond that, I was tormented with feelings of remorse, rocked with guilt that was palpable. You see, my thirst for vengeance was causing undue hardship to my own family. I started thinking that our fight wasn’t worth it, because the wrong people were getting hurt. Sometimes the price you pay for justice is just too high. Sometimes the guilty go free so that the innocent don’t suffer unnecessarily.

Excerpt from A Life Well Stolen

Preface Continued

As I sat in bed in the early hours of that morning, my wife asleep beside me, my kids in their beds, and it still dark outside, I worried about their well-being.  Having spent so much on legal fees, we had found ourselves on the brink of bankruptcy. What of their futures?  My daughter was only nine years old, my son seven. What had they done to deserve this? They had nothing to do with all of this treachery, yet they would suffer just the same. Their grandfather had wanted them to benefit from his hard work, yet instead they were going without and suffering as I used our money to pay for the services of the attorneys we had hired to reclaim that which had been taken from him.

And it was only going to get worse.  Our lawyers had just informed us that they needed more money to keep this going, and my share was going to be over $10,000.00.  And then if we lost the fight, we would soon have to pay so much more.

And we were losing, I thought to myself then. Not only had my dad lost his estate, but we were going to lose the battle to get it back and in the process we might also lose everything that we had as well.

That person had laughed about it and bragged, “They don’t have enough money to fight me.  They can’t do it. They’ll give up.”

The money part was close to right, but that didn’t make us give up. Instead, we had found the resources and fought on, spending tens of thousands of dollars on legal fees in the process. Our lawyers had recently told us we could potentially spend over a hundred thousand dollars more. Did we want to continue? Could we afford to continue? I had brashly said that I didn’t care what it cost.  We had been told that we could easily spend more than what our dad had intended to be our inheritance, but I still didn’t care. It wasn’t about the money, I had said to anyone that would listen.  That was the truth. It never had been about the money.  It had always been about justice for my dad and what was right. And it wasn’t right that a man with advanced Alzheimer’s could become victimized, as was my dad, and lose everything.

It just wasn’t right.

But what is right and wrong too often doesn’t factor in to real life.  I knew that then and I know that now. That morning, I couldn’t keep away the sense of foreboding that we were probably not going to win, and that I had spent all that money and would spend more for nothing. We were broke and it was my fault, I told myself.  I should not have risked my family’s future for my dad’s sake or for my desire for justice that at that moment seemed unattainable. What did justice mean to my family when they had no roof over their heads or food on the table?

It meant nothing.