No...Not Again!

By Edith Eveon Brown

A mother who lost two of her sons pays tribute to both by sharing how the death of a child and his sibling can alter the life of those left behind. As well as, how people with ulterior motives can corrupt one life which affects many others.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Edith Eveon Brown
• Release date: Aug 14, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463457917

Edith Eveon Brown

Edith Eveon Brown, a published indie author, blogger, freelance writer, and publisher.She is the owner/operator of Jeteak Press, a short and long-term writing services company. Under her company’s name, Edith has authored and published an array of non-fiction and fiction books in electronic and printed versions under the following genres: how-to, literature, memoir, religion, self-help, and travel which can be purchased from your favorite book retailers.In January 2018, Edith sold her Maryland home, bought a motorhome, and set out to explore cities/states she had not visited during her career as a property inspector, researcher, and writer.As a full-time motorhome dweller and traveler, Edith Eveon’s continued desire to travel, meet/interview people, continues as she shares what she has learned, discovered, and observed as an author, blogger, freelance writer, and indie publisher while living on and off grid. As well as the pros and cons of motorhome ownership. Edith Eveon Brown, a published indie author, blogger, freelance writer, and publisher.

Book preview

This book is dedicated with love

To:

Berry Davis

Bruce Martin

Candace Shelton

Kaylon Jones

Kendra Williams

Kimberlynn Jurkowski

Ora Dillon-Carter

Phenomenal Ladies M/C Club of Maryland

Stanley Uncle Butch Caldwell

Editor:

Lillie Ammann

Prologue

By Edith Eveon Brown

A mother who lost two of her sons pays tribute to both by sharing how the death of a child and sibling can alter the life of those left behind, as well as how people with ulterior motives can corrupt one life, which affects many others.

My sons—Patrick Marshall Jones and Keithalon Hector Jones [Aka Joker]—were remarkable young men. Regretfully, I wasn’t given the opportunity to see Patrick reach manhood because he died in a car accident at age eighteen. This experience had an adverse effect on all of us, especially Keithalon.

Keithalon was my second son. When his oldest brother Patrick died, Keithalon was sixteen years old. As a result, he was never able to form friendships with male associates or to find a surrogate older brother.

After Keithalon graduated from Frederick Douglass High (FDHS) in 1991, he continued his education at Lincoln Technical Institute. He graduated from the Air Conditioning, Refrigeration and Heating Technology program; both schools are located in Maryland.

In the FDHS Eagle Yearbook, Keithalon H. Jones, Aka Hank, the school’s Eagle Mascot, wrote, The people I would love to thank are my mother, brother, sister, and my friend that I love dearly, Lisa. Thank you and God who is always in my heart for all of you. Be yourself.

I had a great relationship with Keithalon. We spent a lot of time talking, visiting, and traveling. At forty-one years old, he, too, was snatched from my life. Finalizing his death by collecting and transferring personal effects from Brunswick, Georgia, to Upper Marlboro, Maryland changed the peaceful landscape of my life.

Patrick Marshall Jones

Chapter 1

My first son, Patrick Marshall Jones, was born on a chilly November evening at a local Georgia hospital in 1970. He let out a bullhorn yell, which caused the delivery room nurses and my physician to erupt in laughter.

Well, young man, you missed your spanking. Welcome to the world of the living, the doctor said.

Okay, little man, a nurse said. Let’s record your measurements and weight. Then, I’ll return you to your mother.

I heard a nurse announce, This little guy weights seven pounds...and he is twenty-one inches long.

All right, got it, another nurse replied, as she documented his birth record.

Don’t forget to imprint his feet, the doctor said.

When the nurse placed this new infant in my arms, I immediately noticed his big brown eyes were wide open. He had a full head of curly black hair, a cute little smile, and a button nose.

Well, hello, Patrick, I said.

Look at that big smile! Mrs. Jones, you have a special little boy. He seems to be happy to be here. Most newborns are fussy with attitudes, like we caused them to be here and they weren’t ready. God bless you, the nurse said. A transporter will be here soon to take you to your room; your baby is on his way to the nursery.

I saw Patrick again later that evening when a neonatal nurse from the hospital nursery delivered newborns to their mothers to be fed.

During a closer inspection of my baby’s toes, fingers, stomach, back, face, and head, I saw that everything about Patrick was perfect, except for a bullhorn cry. That occurred when he was hungry, which was often, or when he needed his diaper changed.

Otherwise, he was content playing with his toes and fingers, watching and cooing at the Fisher-Price dancing animal mobile mounted over his crib, or tentatively watching his sister. She was fourteen months older than Patrick and often played with her toys near his crib or playpen.

As I reflect on Patrick’s birth at this moment, I am reminded how drastically things have changed for new mothers delivering babies in hospitals nowadays. In the 70s, first-time mothers were kept in the hospital for four days in order to recover from delivering a baby and to learn how to care for a newborn.

Returning mothers simply stayed to recuperate physically and emotionally prior to returning to their previous home life. Since I was in this latter group, Patrick and I returned home four days later to an excited fourteen-month-old and an exhausted husband.

Although my immediate family, husband, and in-laws had been excited when my daughter was born, they were especially happy with the birth of Patrick.

My father said, The birth of a healthy child is the greatest blessing for new parents and family members, but the greatest honor is achieved when a male is born. His birth guarantees the family’s heritage.

As a relatively new mother, I had the same high hopes, fears, desires, and expectations for my children as other mothers. So, I watched their development, made the required doctor’s appointments, observed and documented every accomplishment.

For now, Patrick and his sister were so much alike that they became inseparable. Whether Patrick was in his crib, playpen, or stroller or on the floor, his sister was always beside him.

Patrick had just turned seven months old, and he and his sister were sitting on the floor watching Sesame Street. I was in the kitchen preparing lunch when I heard, Come on; let’s show Mommy.

I turned from the stove holding two plastic bowls and faced the entranceway to the kitchen, expecting to see a crawler and a walker. Instead, they entered the kitchen holding hands—grinning and walking together like they did this on a regular basis.

Needless to say, both bowls fell to the floor, sending beans and wieners over the kitchen floor, which made them laugh so hard that Patrick fell on his butt.

I was shocked because I assumed all babies crawl before walking as his sister did, but this wasn’t the case for Patrick. If he was on the floor, he rolled until he was near his sister or some object and pulled up on