My brother and I approached the tall white-steepled church–large and looming as one might expect in the middle of the deep South–its starkness brilliantly contrasted against a Carolina blue sky. In the church’s foyer, a group of mourners gathered–mostly elderly. Their children congregated there too–young folks–not slowed with age yet, but certainly leaden down by too many deep-fried hush puppies and sweet tea. My brother and I, Southerners transplanted to California–me to the desert and he to the ocean–entered the church as mournful, beautiful strangers. It was our grandmother this group had come to eulogize. My recollection then–at 25–was the church housed at least 100 pews to the left and to the right. I don’t know if that is the case today, as with…