While most marriages would not have survived, my parents stayed together and would have four more children; siblings Chris and Heather, myself, and younger brother Patrick aka “Babe”; who was born during a Hurricane on Sept. 22, 1975.
Dad’s career would eventually take off becoming a prominent player in industrial paper sales working for such companies as Mead, Roosevelt, and Nakoosa.
I still have a memory of him coming to my 1st grade class in Mobile Alabama and showing all of us how paper is made starting with just water and wood shavings. Later, while living in Dunwoody, prior to our final move to the country, he would again step up to the plate by having his company donate paper supplies to Our Lady of Assumption Catholic Elementary. I remember hearing the intercom announcement.
With all of Dad’s kindness and love there was another side, a darker side, that he could not shake – alcohol. I often ask myself if he drank to stupor due to the pain of losing the boys or simply because he liked it. Under such influence, he would turn from Dad to Demon. Such stories I still remember clearly at my age of 52 that I will never put on paper. Suffice to say that after a final episode in 1978, my mother would threaten divorce unless they moved out of the growing City of Atlanta. She believed he needed to find a new beginning and free his mind. He agreed.
Thus, buying an old farmhouse in 1978 with agriculturally zoned acreage in an unincorporated area of rural North Fulton was where they placed their bets.
Both wanted a fresh start and found it with a property offering quiet, safety, gardening, and horses to raise their family and find true purpose. These reasons are why they purchased the home I was raised in and now own. That area today is known as the “City” of Milton; incorporated in 2006.
“Stable Days Farm”, as we lovingly referred to it, did provide solace for decades. Fantastic stories of Dad playing “All Time Quarter Back” for a pickup football game in our largest pasture with local kids was common. I still remember the classic play he would always have me run as we huddled prepping for our assault. Back turned, he would lay out his palm and show the plan with his index finger. Looking at me, he would say “Alright Timbo, do the short ‘L’ and turn…” often it could be the reverse ‘L’ or long ‘L’ but rest assured, the play would include an ‘L’ of some fashion or other.
Then there was the episode of Whitey the bull staking his claim from a large farm that bordered us. See the story attached. Suffice to say, a pool skimmer pole has little effect on an animal of such size, strength, and pride…
Who can forget the story of Dan, the ungelded pony who lived a house down and was used for plowing? It wasn’t uncommon for this pudgy Casanova to breach fencing to come visit with our two Arabian mares; Belle and daughter Liberty. Unfortunately for Dan, height did limit some activities.
All four of us would attend Alpharetta Elementary as well as the real Milton High School, not The LIE located on Freemanville Road that forced innocent families off their land in 2005 with their homes destroyed. More on that later…
As we moved into our college years, Dad’s drinking came back with a vengeance. It became so paramount that he was no longer employable in an industry he once dominated. Monies were severely limited at this point. Always trying to move forward, Mom resorted to cleaning out ash trays at the New North Point Mall to make ends meet. She then obtained her Georgia Real Estate License in her mid-50s and teamed up with Harry Norman Realtors.
She was a steady million-dollar producer and did well in the industry for over 20 years following. We still receive Christmas cards from client’s years after her passing. Thank you, Roger and Gary.
Eventually, Mom and Dad would separate with my father moving to Foley, Alabama near the Gulf Coast. Dad’s drinking was just too much. Then, on February 20, 1999, my father would perish in yet another fire, this one destroying an entire apartment building in which he resided. It would seem the fire from decades ago was only smoldering and finally caught up with him. The day of his funeral some spoke. I did as well but could only muster up the following – “Today is a very difficult day for me. I do want everyone to know that my father was a good man. He was a good man.” The service was closed casket.
I mentioned earlier that younger brother Patrick was born during a category 3 hurricane; “Eloise” it was named. Patrick was the tallest of us at 6’ 2”; a lean ‘Brad Pitt’ type build. Always laughing, he would pick up my 5-foot tall / 105- pound Mom and carry her around the house saying “Tell them, Mom! Tell them you love me the best!”
There was another moment the two of them shared when they were stopped at a red light at the main intersection in Alpharetta. A custom car with a blaring stereo pulled up next to her ‘79 Grey Sedan Deville Cadillac. With the neighboring vehicle shaking the ol’ Caddy’s inner core, Patrick turned to my mother and said, “Let’s show ‘em, Mom!” He rolled down his passenger window a bit and turned up 96 Rock radio station. Did I mention GM’s audio system offered digital display? Oh, and who can forget “A Bunny Tail”?
Patrick did a bit of modeling in his time and was also a background extra on “The Last Confederate Widow” staring Diane Lane and Donald Sutherland – check the dancing scene 
and you will see him. His goal was to be a broadcaster having worked at a radio station in college.
Some say genetics can be a gift while others a curse. Patrick, too, was a drinker, and three DUI’s would haunt him. Then, on his 25th birthday, September 22nd, 2000, my younger brother Patrick Andrew Enloe, would lose control of his car three miles from home during Tropical Storm Helene. He was returning from a job interview, hydroplaned, and hit a telephone pole. I still remember Mom calling me in hysterics. His note that a.m. hoped a new tie would bring some luck.
I thought, “He probably just broke his arm, the dumb ass.” I was beyond wrong as he broke both arms and legs and would also suffer severe head trauma. I still remember my mother in the emergency room shaking his shoulders with a swarm of medical staff around him, pleading “Babe! Wake up, Babe!”
We would eventually be taken into the infamous side room where a doctor and two nurses would join us. Stating there was no hope, the Doctor would say “Well, as tough as this is, his death can help a lot of other people…” Knowing where this was going, eyes done, I looked sternly at him and said, “No.” One of the nurses sighed and rolled her eyes. I turned to her and glared, repeating myself, “NO! You are NOT gutting my brother!” My family had already suffered more than enough.
Holding his hand, we would pull the plug on September 23, 2000, chasing the monitor with our eyes hoping for a miracle – none would come. No one should die on their birthday. His birth and subsequent death both transpired during storms; I try so hard to understand. God how I hope the good do die young. Fly younger brother…fly… I love you.
At his funeral, my mother spoke calmly and softly thanking all for coming and then asked a simply question aloud. “How much more, dear Lord, how much more?”
Later, I would come to find out that an old high school friend of Mom’s approached her afterwards and they talked. “Pat, how can you keep going?” she pressed. Briefly looking down, my mother then evidently responded “I have to live for those I still have. The only blessing is that Harvey isn’t here to see this…”
A few days later, I checked in on Mom to see how she was fairing. I called out to her as I walked into the kitchen. Silence. Concerned, I searched the entire house, eventually finding her asleep in Patrick’s bedroom, hugging the teddy bear he couldn’t be without as a child. Making sure she was breathing I left the room and quietly closed the door. How much more, indeed…
As the years came and went, Mom and I talked often on various topics. Always trying to learn; always trying to listen. I asked her what she dreamed of being when she was a little girl.
Quickly with no pause, the answer was always the same “I just wanted to have my babies and be a mom.” Hopes of restoring the beloved home my parents worked so hard to pay off constantly occupied her mind as well.
The topic of death was discussed every now and then. Mom would always respond with a tired smile, stating “I don’t fear death because I will be with my boys again…”
I share this history not for pity, sympathy, or special treatment but to show the strength of my mother, Patricia Ann Murphy Enloe; a true lady. Regardless of the horrid fate which chased her throughout life, she kept moving forward and kept trying. She never gave up; practicing real estate six months before she passed. Today, I still have the large kitchen pig statue display holding a little chalk board that she wrote on often. In her beautiful handwriting, it says “Today will be a happy day!” I love you, Mom. I miss you beyond words.
I share this with you to show the hope and internal battle of my father, Harvey Enloe III – no one should live with such sorrow and guilt. A good man given nothing, yet with so much heartache, would rise above the ranks in so many ways. I love you, Dad. I miss you beyond words.
I share this story so that others can see where the source of my passions and protections come from regarding their beloved home. It is all I have left.
The law is created to hold no bias or gray regardless of the fates given. None should have an advantage or disadvantage depending. It should be true across the board. Justice must be blind.
Some of our species, however, think otherwise…