When the story becomes personal

Just last week, I wrote about one of the hardest parts of this job — showing up to cover something that may be the worst day of someone else’s life.

Saturday morning, those words came back to me.

My first cousin, Deputy Sheriff Dewey Grubb, called to tell me two people had been found dead from gunshot wounds at a home on Ky. 149 — the same road where I live.

Police were headed to the scene, and I got in my vehicle. At that moment, I wasn’t thinking much about a newspaper story. I was thinking about my neighbors.

Driving down the road, I kept wondering who it could be. Then I reached a long straight stretch and saw the ambulance and police vehicles.

They were at the home of my relative Wayne Collins and his wife, Glenna.

My heart sank.

There really isn’t a better word for Wayne and Glenna than beloved. Ask almost anyone who knew them, and you will hear the same thing: They were two of the nicest people you could ever meet.

After speaking with officers and their caregiver and learning what had happened, I called my wife and asked her to help me contact their family.

In more than 30 years at The Manchester Enterprise, I can count on one hand the number of times I have arrived at a tragedy involving people I knew this well. In that respect, I have been fortunate.

Saturday was different. Saturday hurt.

Wayne was a retired coal miner, a veteran and served his country in Vietnam. Glenna worked for many years in the Clay County School System. Ask the students and employees who knew her, and they will tell you what a kind, sweet woman she was.

But when I think about Wayne and Glenna, I picture them together.

They had no children and were completely devoted to one another. I couldn't begin to count the times I drove past their home and saw them outside working on their beautiful landscaping. Everything was always immaculate.

Many times, they wore straw hats, down on their knees, working side by side.

That is how I want to remember them.

As Glenna's health declined, it was apparent that the years and the responsibility of caring for someone he loved so deeply were weighing heavily on Wayne as well.

None of us can truly know what was going through his mind Saturday morning, and I don't believe we should pretend that we can. What happened was tragic, heartbreaking and impossible to make sense of.

But one terrible morning does not erase a lifetime.

I will remember the veteran and coal miner. I will remember the sweet lady who spent her career helping our schoolchildren.

Most of all, I will remember two straw hats in a beautiful yard — Wayne and Glenna, side by side.