Christopher Bartling I was born in Memphis in 1920, the second of six children of African-American parents. We were pretty poor in money, but rich in love. My father died of prostate cancer when he was 82.
0-19 years We were a happy family. We worked hard and played hard and ate well (lots of barbequed beef and pork, heaps of French fries-the works!). Despite my parents’ love and attention, I grew up a little wild. I finished high school, but I started drinking when I was teenager and never really stopped. I got a job as a laborer on the railroad after I graduated form high school and never worked for anyone else.	10-39 years I settled down outside of Memphis and had a comfortable life. I still drank pretty heavily on the weekends, but it never interfered with my working. In fact, by now, I was making my own moonshine liquor and handing it out or selling it to my friends. I almost never went to a doctor and probably didn’t eat that well, living alone as I did. My friends used to say I needed a wife to take care of me, but I liked the bachelor’s lifestyle.
40-59 years When my mother died of a heart attack (I was 42 at the time), I felt kind of alone in the world. I had brothers and sisters, but I didn’t see them often. So one day, I decided to get myself a dog. It was a good thing-the dog kept me company on the weekends and waited patiently all day for m to come home and play with her after work. I never was much for exercise (as a laborer, I figured I got plenty when I worked), but I started taking long walks with the dog. Those were good times. The doctor even said that’s probably why my heart was so strong.	60+ years I retired the railroad the day I turned 65. Retirement was pleasant- I spent most of my days puttering in my garden and playing with my still and experimenting with different kinds f brews. They found the cancer when I was 75 years old. I started to loose weight and I had some pains in my abdomen, so I went to see the doctor. She said I had pancreatic cancer, pretty far along, and there wasn’t much they could do for me. They wanted to put me in a nursing home, but I told them they could keep their nurses and their treatments: I was going home. I had a good life and it was time to go, that’s the way it was. Christopher died eight months after being diagnosed with cancer. He was 76.