Edward Miles McCullough was the only child of Robert Clifford McCullough (1854-1926) and his wife Mary Augusta Miles (1859-1933). On July 23, 1905 he married Harriet Griswold of Worthington, OH. The couple settled in Worthington and raised two sons: Edward Griswold (b. 1908), and John Morton (b. 1911). McCullough worked in sales.
McCullough's last years were darkened by tragedy. In 1942 his younger son John, a police officer, was killed in a motorcycle accident while on duty. And in 1947 his wife died after 42 years of marriage. Writing to his cousin Anna Hope McCullough LeSage in January 1949, McCullough noted his failing health and the melancholy of the recent Christmas holiday: "The embers of reality have grown cold. I can not fan them back into life." Declaring that he would likely not see another Christmas, he reflected on "how one's view differ with the years. In earlier years I would have done almost anything to avoid death. But now, that feeling is all gone. I will not say that I welcome Death; for that would hardly be an accurate expression. Rather should I say, it is a matter of increasing indifference. The Future I can not picture. But deep within me is a certainty, that the Beyond is far more personal, far more beautiful, far more vast, than our human minds are capable of conceiving, in our life here." Miles McCullough died five months later. He was 65.
McCullough's last years were darkened by tragedy. In 1942 his younger son John, a police officer, was killed in a motorcycle accident while on duty. And in 1947 his wife died after 42 years of marriage. Writing to his cousin Anna Hope McCullough LeSage in January 1949, McCullough noted his failing health and the melancholy of the recent Christmas holiday: "The embers of reality have grown cold. I can not fan them back into life." Declaring that he would likely not see another Christmas, he reflected on "how one's view differ with the years. In earlier years I would have done almost anything to avoid death. But now, that feeling is all gone. I will not say that I welcome Death; for that would hardly be an accurate expression. Rather should I say, it is a matter of increasing indifference. The Future I can not picture. But deep within me is a certainty, that the Beyond is far more personal, far more beautiful, far more vast, than our human minds are capable of conceiving, in our life here." Miles McCullough died five months later. He was 65.
Edward Miles McCullough was the only child of Robert Clifford McCullough (1854-1926) and his wife Mary Augusta Miles (1859-1933). On July 23, 1905 he married Harriet Griswold of Worthington, OH. The couple settled in Worthington and raised two sons: Edward Griswold (b. 1908), and John Morton (b. 1911). McCullough worked in sales.
McCullough's last years were darkened by tragedy. In 1942 his younger son John, a police officer, was killed in a motorcycle accident while on duty. And in 1947 his wife died after 42 years of marriage. Writing to his cousin Anna Hope McCullough LeSage in January 1949, McCullough noted his failing health and the melancholy of the recent Christmas holiday: "The embers of reality have grown cold. I can not fan them back into life." Declaring that he would likely not see another Christmas, he reflected on "how one's view differ with the years. In earlier years I would have done almost anything to avoid death. But now, that feeling is all gone. I will not say that I welcome Death; for that would hardly be an accurate expression. Rather should I say, it is a matter of increasing indifference. The Future I can not picture. But deep within me is a certainty, that the Beyond is far more personal, far more beautiful, far more vast, than our human minds are capable of conceiving, in our life here." Miles McCullough died five months later. He was 65.
McCullough's last years were darkened by tragedy. In 1942 his younger son John, a police officer, was killed in a motorcycle accident while on duty. And in 1947 his wife died after 42 years of marriage. Writing to his cousin Anna Hope McCullough LeSage in January 1949, McCullough noted his failing health and the melancholy of the recent Christmas holiday: "The embers of reality have grown cold. I can not fan them back into life." Declaring that he would likely not see another Christmas, he reflected on "how one's view differ with the years. In earlier years I would have done almost anything to avoid death. But now, that feeling is all gone. I will not say that I welcome Death; for that would hardly be an accurate expression. Rather should I say, it is a matter of increasing indifference. The Future I can not picture. But deep within me is a certainty, that the Beyond is far more personal, far more beautiful, far more vast, than our human minds are capable of conceiving, in our life here." Miles McCullough died five months later. He was 65.
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