Cyberscotts

Lloyd Gilbert Brinn was born on September 11^th, 1927, in Swan Quarter, North Carolina, to Cleophus Brinn and Bessie May Brinn, née Hodges. His Mom used to tell him that the alligators were hollering that night.

He was a little brother to Kellis, Brinn. He grew up outdoors and had a lot of adventures.

Lloyd joined the US Marines. He never really talked about his personal experiences, but I guess I never really asked him.

He liked to tell stories about a man he called «Rat» Gibbs—a little man, tough as nails, they sent down to clear the underground bunkers when they thought it was mostly safe and sometimes wasn't. When they sent down the «Rat,» he would go into these holes with nothing more than a pistol and a flashlight.

Lloyd returned to the States and met a girl named Mary.

Lloyd and Mary once went squirrel hunting in the woods. They ended up with dozens of squirrels stacked on top of the car. Later, they forgot they were there.

They were married on July 10^th, 1954. With time, the family grew.

Lloyd was a husband, a father, a brother, a hunter—and sometimes just a clown.

I'm not sure exactly when, but he also started having some mental problems, possibly caused by—or at least exacerbated by—working with chemicals for the railroad. He had climbed into rail transport tanks and cleaned them.

These problems weren't funny, and he was on medication for the rest of his life.

Lloyd and Mary moved into the country—to a small farm in Clover, Virginia.

It was a quiet place, and Lloyd was able to hunt. He set up a gun shop and expanded his collection of guns and knives. He was on good terms with Uncle Budd, Keith and Jeff. Also, he was able to hunt.

The first time I met Lloyd, we spent a couple of hours trying to find an opportunity to speak in private.

I had been warned that he had issues. Still, I wanted to talk to him about my relationship with his daughter. Finally, we ended up alone at one corner of the kitchen table, and he spoke to me in a hushed tone, which—I learned later— was very unlike him.

"I know you like my daughter, and you seem like a good man, but I want you to know that I had problems—serious, mental problems. It was a while back, and I think I'm OK now, but I wanted you to know."

It was a very short, frank, and disarming discussion. We shook hands. By the time the ladies found us, we were each eating a bowl of icecream.

In the mid-1990s, Lloyd became a grandfather—again and again and again.

He was sometimes gruff when he felt things were too loud or disorderly, but usually very good-natured with the kids.

But the problems he had told me about earlier were coming back. His paranoia was getting worse.

His worries resulted in insomnia for everybody around him—when Lloyd G. Brinn laid awake at night, NOBODY slept.

Still, there were some good days. We went with Lloyd to Ocracoke, Island—but getting to the ferry, we had to avoid the city of Bell Haven. There were two men there—brothers of a girl he had known well a long time ago (and who he often included in his bedtime prayers)—who had threatened to kill him. The vacation was great and he often talked about it.

He was happy on the farm, but was getting frail and moved with Mary to Hopewell, Virginia, to live with his son, Ronnie. Because he started to have problems moving around the house, he moved into a home in Hopewell. When Ronnie left to serve in Afghanistan, we moved him to a home in Maryland—Mary moved in with us. Mary and Norma visited him about every other day.

He was probably never easy to live with, but he was a likeable, smart, interesting man. I don't know what it was like to have this man as a father, but sometimes it was hard to be around him as a friend. He passed away on August 3^rd, 2009, after a painful and sometimes ugly struggle with an illness he knew he would not beat. With Lloyd gone, I guess I can summarize the end of his story simply by paraphrasing the first serious conversation we ever had. He had some problems. He was sick for a while. But I think he's OK now.

Rest in peace, Lloyd Brinn.