By Sharon Rose

The memories of you have been lost in time for too many years. It’s time to make you visible again.

In one of my most vivid memories of you, I was only five years old yet I remember everything as if it was yesterday. I was walking with you from our apartment at 1605 East 79th to East 73rd and Lexington Avenue and then on to the carnival on East 79th and Kinsman Avenue that came every year around Easter. Of course, Mom only let me go because you were taking me. You couldn’t have been more than 12 years old. As we walked down Lexington Avenue, our cousins and friends joined us. It was like a parade. At the carnival, you never let me out of your sight. You would give
me a little red ticket and put me on a ride. When it was finished, we would run to the next one. I can’t even remember if you had a chance to ride yourself.

At the end of the day, I was too tired to walk home. You put me up on your shoulders and carried me. The cousins and friends turned down their streets and then, we were a few feet from our apartment, you let me down and we walked up the stairs. You were born on Nov. 23, 1953, and our family always had the chance to celebrate your birthday on Thanksgiving, which made the day even more special. It was a time for all nine of us to be together. Whenever I told someone I had six brothers and was the only girl, they said I was spoiled. We were a big family: Dad (Hughery), Mom (Georgia), Larry, Gregory, Sharon, Victor, Jeffery,
Charles and Rico. Always playing games, laughing and dancing. I still remember mom teaching Larry and you how to hand dance catching the door knob.

“I loved having you as my protector.”

I also remember the time I went to Geauga Lake with some
friends. A neighborhood church was taking kids on their bus. We were just a bunch of teenagers, yet we let Victor and Nita go with us. It was a holiday – I think of the 4th of July. When it was time to go, Victor wasn’t at the meeting spot we picked. The bus left us kids there at the park, so we kept riding into the night. When the park closed, the employees there kept calling all the numbers we gave them until they reached an adult.

Four of us waited outside and I saw you in your Big Gray Cadillac coming down the road, my hero coming to save me. There wasn’t much room, you had three friends in the car but we piled in old school and sat on laps the whole way home. My big brother Greg came to the rescue.

When you left to join the Army, I didn’t even know anything
about the military. By then you had grown to 6 foot 7 inches. You were so tall and so handsome in your uniform. A big brother to look up to in every way.

Everyone in our family loved to dance. I remember attending
hand dance parties with you and going roller skating. Once
again, mom only let me go because you would be there to
watch over me. I loved having you as my protector. I remember watching you and our brother Larry hand dance the night away and you laughing at Larry’s jokes.

When I was old enough to learn to drive, you let me drive your 1970-something Cadillac. I remember it was gray and so big and long. I was only about 4’ 11’’ and needed to sit on a pillow to even see out the windshield. You trusted me with your pride and joy. Your house was right down the street from us and you let me hang out there with my friends. They loved you. You were the big brother that allowed us to be grown. You let me have my Saturday front porch salon and French braid your friends’ hair to make money for the week. You always taught me to save some of the money. You also made sure we understood the importance of reading. You were the first person in the family to go to college, studying electronics at Cuyahoga Community College. When I graduated, our mom bought me a car. You had told her
you wanted to buy me one as a graduation gift. It was a green Maverick, my pride and joy.

“You were the big brother that allowed us to be grown.”

When we lost you in December 1977, it was a terrible Christmas. Someone out there had taken you away from us. We never found out who. The joy of Christmas was lost for years. How could someone do this to us? I was only 17 years old wondering why, just why, would someone take your life. I think the pain was too unbearable for us to make it through the days and years to come. It was as if we packed you away in a box. We didn’t speak about you. We didn’t share our memories. We didn’t visit your grave site, or anyone’s in the family. It was too hard for us. But you were in my heart, always. I named my own son Gregory Devon — that
way I always had a piece of you with me. If not in life, in spirit.

I added your name “Gregory Devon Buchanan” to a plaque
that was placed on the wall at the Gloria Pointer school in West Ghana. It was another way that I honored you.

To this day, I pray your case is solved, so we can know who took you from us.

Love always and forever,
Sharon

Photos by Michael Indriolo