There was an episode of the legendary television western Bonanza titled “He Was Only Seven”. The episode featured famous actor Roscoe Lee Browne, who portrayed a grandfather whose grandson (who was only seven) died from a gunshot he received during a bank robbery. The episode was written by Michael Landon (Source: https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0529575/fullcredits?ref_=ttfc_ql_1 Retrieved August 7, 2023). There was an episode of Little House on the Prairie with a similar title and plot, “He Was Only Twelve” (Source: https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0633020/ Retrieved August 7, 2023). Michael Landon both directed and starred in this episode.
Just yesterday I was impressed to visit the Cabage Cemetery in the Black Fox area of Grainger County, Tennessee. This is where many of my ancestors on my father’s side of the family are buried, and where I anticipate being interred some day. Of particular interest to me was the grave of my father’s only full brother, Fred Mincey.
Fred Mincey was born on September 13, 1915 to my paternal grandparents J. L. (“Paw” or “Fate”) and Mary Katherine Nicely (“Mother”) Mincey. The family lived in the “Thomas Holler”, which has since been renamed Black Fox Hollow. Six children were born to Paw and Mother Mincey. My father Frank was only nineteen months older than his only full brother. Dad had five half-brothers from his father’s prior marriage. Stories my father’s sister Vallie used to tell indicate that not all of Dad’s interactions with these half-brothers were happy ones when he was growing up.
By the time I was born, all of Dad’s half-siblings were deceased except for Amos Mincey (the oldest son, a World War I veteran), Lucy Mincey Branum Boruff (the only daughter from Fate Mincey’s first marriage), and Robert “Rob” Mincey. I only got to meet Amos Mincey once. He was ill, staying with my Aunt Fleetie (Dad’s youngest full sister) in Knoxville. I was eight years old, in third grade, and he barked out at me, “What grade you in, boy?” I was almost too terrified to reply, “Th-, th-, third!” Aunt Lucy, who lived in Blaine, used to give me her old National Enquirers. Once she gave me a half-bed that was terribly bowed in the middle (didn’t matter—slept in it for several years). I remember Uncle Rob well—he and Dad used to visit each other often. I remember them “whittlin’” short cedar sticks of wood, creating nothing but “shavins’”, talking hours on end. If there were problems between Dad and his siblings when he was growing up, they were not a problem during their later adult years.
Mother Mincey was no stranger to grief. She lost a daughter, Faustine, on September 19, 1921 due to illness. On August 6, 1923, one hundred years ago to the very day of my last visit to the Cabage Cemetery to date, her youngest son Fred was kicked to death by a mule at the family farm. How I wish those who were present were still alive to tell me details of that day. I don’t know the circumstances that surrounded this tragedy. I only know that Paw Mincey was going to kill the mule, but blessed, kind-hearted Mother Mincey told him that wouldn’t bring Fred back. I seem to remember being told that later the mule was sold and played a part in another death.
I don’t remember ever hearing Dad talk a great deal about his brother’s death. It certainly must have affected him, as Fred was his only full brother and there was less than two years’ age difference between them. Poor Mother Mincey must have grieved to have lost this second child just a few weeks shy of two years of the death of her daughter Faustine. Aunt Duskie, who would have been almost eleven when her sister died and almost thirteen when her brother died, must have grieved as well. My Aunt Vallie said Mother Mincey favored boys. She certainly loved my father. I’ve been told that Mother Mincey said, “Frank said he was going to come by today. Wonder if he will?” Immediately after saying that, she collapsed from a stroke.
In all these years, I have seen one picture of Faustine and one picture of Fred. The picture of Fred was made the day he died, August 6, 1923. He was one month and seven days shy of his eighth birthday. He was laid on top of the wooden box in which he was to be buried. Details are hard to make out, but it seems he was being preserved with salt. This picture was enlarged, colorized, and enclosed in an oval-shaped frame with “bubble” glass. I have been told that picture hung on Mother Mincey’s wall as long as she kept house. After Mother Mincey’s death my dad’s full sister Vallie kept the picture for the rest of her life. After Vallie’s death, the picture went to my half-sister Marie, who gave it to me a few years ago.
I keep the time-worn, very delicate portrait in a cardboard flower box I got from Bob Sharp. I have it wrapped in a wine-colored velvety throw, secreted away under my home library work table made from church pews and particle board. I would love some day to have the picture restored.
I think of Fred Mincey. Had the mule not killed him, he would have undoubtedly been dead by now from other causes, age if nothing else. On Wednesday, September 13, 2023 Fred would turn 108 years old. What is left today of a life so short, other than a tombstone, the photograph of his deceased body and this written reminiscence from a nephew he was never to know, who never knew him? My father named his oldest son Fred Austin Mincey after his only full-brother. In turn, Fred Austin, my oldest half-brother, named his son Fred Keith Mincey.
I wonder what Fred Mincey the elder would have become had he lived. No one will ever know. Surely he would have been proud to know that two descendants were named for him. It is for certain that he missed the Great Depression, World War II, and any other sicknesses and calamities that have occurred during the past century. Sadly, his descendants were unable to share an adolescent and adult life with him. No one is alive today who knew him when he lived.
Dear Reader, until the printed word brings us together again, I leave you with some contemplations of life for your personal reflection.

Over 100 years ago, everyone owned a horse and only the rich had cars.
Today everyone has cars and only the rich own horses.

“Old age isn’t so bad when you consider the alternative.” – Maurice Chevalier

His finest hour lasted a minute and a half. – Phyllis Diller
I saw an ad for burial plots, and I thought: “That’s the last thing I need!”

The perfect age is somewhere between old enough to know better and too young to care.