It's been about two months since I received the call that my dad was gone, and one month since I received the call that my brother was gone. It's left me with a feeling of dread every time the phone rings. There are ups and downs every day. Motivation and inspiration are difficult to find. I try to find gratitude, though. It's easy to find at least one simple thing to be grateful for, when you look.
My youngest son and I celebrated our birthdays. We did our best to enjoy the days, but there were obvious missing pieces. My dad wasn't there. My brother Tom didn't call.
I'm the youngest of 8 children. During the surreal time since the calls, I've had the opportunity to be around all of my siblings. It was a blessing amidst the harshness of the reality. We had time to talk, laugh, cry, visit. The family dynamic is changed, or more likely: my personal identity seems altered, somehow. There came a point when I knew that after everyone had gone back to their lives, there would be nothing left to do but take a look at myself, and deal with me. I'm a bit on the introvert side, so these times of self-reflection are crucial to my sanity.
My thoughts are broken, though. They wander aimlessly. My focus is lacking. But the thoughts ultimately come back to the same place. I recall with overwhelming clarity events of childhood, and specific moments of time. As if there's some hidden meaning I've missed.
From the day I was brought home, I was immersed in music. Most of my siblings were teenagers, and mom was a big fan of rock. It may be debatable if I learned to sing or talk first, as well as if I could dance or walk first. "Dirty Deeds" by AC/DC was released the same year of my birth, and I can recall singing the words in the check out line at Safeway, while the bagger asked my mother if I was singing what he thought I was singing. I actually really believed that "We Are the Champions" was a family anthem. Heart, Queen, Foreigner, Bad Company, Led Zepplin, Pink Floyd, Rod Stewart, Fleetwood Mac. We blasted the records and 8-tracks on the living room stereo. I imagine that if I had a sound track for the early years of my life, it would consist of songs from these bands and likely a few more.
Growing up can be difficult, and I won't say that we didn't have our share of difficulties. But I knew I was loved by my siblings. Sometimes, a sibling would walk me up to the one gas station in our tiny town. They'd buy me candy and soda. To this day, I find comfort in a Pepsi, or a "Big Cherry" candy bar. They danced with me, played with me, protected and loved me. To some extent, it was as if I grew up with multiple parents. Even though I was the baby, I frequently referred to them as "my kids", so I always felt that it was a mutual need to love and protect them, as well.
There is still much that I want to say to my brother. I wasn't done. If I had him in front of me, what I have to say may sound something like this:
I remember when mom bought you your first acoustic guitar. It may have been for your fourteenth birthday. You promptly learned to play "Eye of the Tiger" by Survivor. You tried to teach me the lyrics. Over and over again, you'd start from the beginning, correcting my five-year-old version. So began our life-long singing. I like to think that I got to the point where I could match you and compliment you, listening ever so closely to your cues. Many years later, you would have a tune and encourage me to "sing something". I wonder now if you ever realized that not everyone has the ability to spontaneously sing from the soul. You did. I hadn't known how deeply your song lyrics were embedded in my brain, or the brains of others.
I remember playing army men with you. We would set up entire armies on opposite ends of the room, then proceed to bomb each other with used batteries. Why were there always so many batteries about the house? Or we would take them outside in the front yard, where the summer weeds became great jungles. I can still remember what it felt like to be in one of my pretty dresses, and you'd throw a camouflage jacket on me and a toy army helmet, and give me a toy gun. That's the kind of princess I've always wanted to be since (kind of explains some later fashion choices).
How you would take me away from the monotonous and boring task of grocery shopping. We'd head to the vending machines at the front of the store. You'd ask if I got my allowance, and I'd present you with my quarter. You'd buy a root beer. You'd convince me every time that there was a pretty good chance it was poisoned, or that it could be real beer. As the older, wiser, and noble brother, you were willing to take the risk of testing it for me. Halfway through my can of soda, I'd squeal: "Tommy!!! Don't drink it all!" This was the game we'd play, and truth be told, I never minded sharing with you.
I see you in my mind, you must be about 12 (and if so, I am three). You are teaching me techniques for fighting. My fingers are in your hair, and I'm pulling your head this way and that way. You are laughing so hard that no real noise of laughter actually comes from your mouth. Your eyes are almost closed, and I can see all your teeth because your smile is so big. It's my favorite picture of you, and it exists only in my head.
I remember the look of confusion and concern on your face (when I was twenty-something) when you told me to take it easy, to chill out, because I was taking things too far, too seriously. You were right, of course. But thank you for being kind.
I could go on with a thousand more memories. But what I really want to say is that I remember, and I know.
I know how talented you always were. With music, compassion, wit, sarcasm, humor, loyalty, philosophy, words. Your songs ring in my head still, and everyone else that heard them. They are haunting, and sad, and beautiful. Others are humorous and catchy, or angry and profound.
I saw how your compassion was more like an art form. It extended far beyond compassion to animals, and was applied on a daily basis to where it matters most: people. You had the ability to make people feel special, seemingly just by association with you. You emitted a feeling of belonging through your charisma. In sincerity, you asked after people and their lives. From the lofty to the lowly, there are so many who were proud to call you a friend. I realize how people adored you.
I remember how you walked to the beat of your own drummer. Sometimes, I could dance and sing along beside you, because I could hear it, too. I know also how it could drive the linear thinkers a bit crazy, but they loved you for it, all the same.
I remember your wit and sarcasm and humor. You could deliver a brutal truth in such a way that even the intended receiver had no choice but to laugh at it. Sarcasm was so refined that only a few were able to catch it all, and those that didn't would often wonder how much you actually meant. You had developed cues to patch the gap between your wit and those who didn't understand it. You'd wait for it. When the look of confusion crossed their faces you'd jut your head forward a bit and smile. That beautiful smile! A smile with your entire face. Starting with your lips, lifting your cheeks up to your eyes, and then your eyes were completely laughing, too. Green eyes with brown sun bursts around the pupils. Sometimes greener, sometimes browner, always beautiful and kind.
I know you were a worrier. But you were always willing to help others take their minds off of their own worries. Through music, or shooting, or a hug, or a philosophical talk. I never got the chance to thank you for what you did for me after my dad died. Two days had gone by, you'd held me and talked with me. I was talking about how I'd spent hours a day on my bike when I was little, and how much I loved it. As long as I could ride a bicycle, I lived to ride it. Especially down the long dirt road behind the house. Breeze in my face, the smell of sagebrush in my nostrils, pedaling as hard as I could down the hill, until the pedals themselves were moving so fast that my little feet couldn't possibly keep up. Just to arrive at the bottom of the hill and slowly make my way back up to the top. You produced a bicycle from storage. You told me to have a go. I rode it up the hill, I raced down the hill. You waited, watching and smiling, and asked, "Well, how was it?" For a moment, I was 10 again, I was completely free of hurt and worry. Thank you. You did this kind of thing often, when I think about it. You were frequently my calm in the eye of the storm.
I'm grateful that I could see you in action in all your roles: friend, brother, son, dad, spouse, grandpa, uncle, musician. I see you in all of these, from my point of view (which is the only one I've got). It's a beautiful thing. I'll keep playing my memories of you in my mind. I'd say goodbye to you using some of your own lyrics, but I won't plagiarize your work. I'll just let you know that I finally figured out all the words to the first song you taught me, and I won't lose my grip on the dreams of the past, I will fight to keep them alive.
My youngest son and I celebrated our birthdays. We did our best to enjoy the days, but there were obvious missing pieces. My dad wasn't there. My brother Tom didn't call.
I'm the youngest of 8 children. During the surreal time since the calls, I've had the opportunity to be around all of my siblings. It was a blessing amidst the harshness of the reality. We had time to talk, laugh, cry, visit. The family dynamic is changed, or more likely: my personal identity seems altered, somehow. There came a point when I knew that after everyone had gone back to their lives, there would be nothing left to do but take a look at myself, and deal with me. I'm a bit on the introvert side, so these times of self-reflection are crucial to my sanity.
My thoughts are broken, though. They wander aimlessly. My focus is lacking. But the thoughts ultimately come back to the same place. I recall with overwhelming clarity events of childhood, and specific moments of time. As if there's some hidden meaning I've missed.
From the day I was brought home, I was immersed in music. Most of my siblings were teenagers, and mom was a big fan of rock. It may be debatable if I learned to sing or talk first, as well as if I could dance or walk first. "Dirty Deeds" by AC/DC was released the same year of my birth, and I can recall singing the words in the check out line at Safeway, while the bagger asked my mother if I was singing what he thought I was singing. I actually really believed that "We Are the Champions" was a family anthem. Heart, Queen, Foreigner, Bad Company, Led Zepplin, Pink Floyd, Rod Stewart, Fleetwood Mac. We blasted the records and 8-tracks on the living room stereo. I imagine that if I had a sound track for the early years of my life, it would consist of songs from these bands and likely a few more.
Growing up can be difficult, and I won't say that we didn't have our share of difficulties. But I knew I was loved by my siblings. Sometimes, a sibling would walk me up to the one gas station in our tiny town. They'd buy me candy and soda. To this day, I find comfort in a Pepsi, or a "Big Cherry" candy bar. They danced with me, played with me, protected and loved me. To some extent, it was as if I grew up with multiple parents. Even though I was the baby, I frequently referred to them as "my kids", so I always felt that it was a mutual need to love and protect them, as well.
There is still much that I want to say to my brother. I wasn't done. If I had him in front of me, what I have to say may sound something like this:
I remember when mom bought you your first acoustic guitar. It may have been for your fourteenth birthday. You promptly learned to play "Eye of the Tiger" by Survivor. You tried to teach me the lyrics. Over and over again, you'd start from the beginning, correcting my five-year-old version. So began our life-long singing. I like to think that I got to the point where I could match you and compliment you, listening ever so closely to your cues. Many years later, you would have a tune and encourage me to "sing something". I wonder now if you ever realized that not everyone has the ability to spontaneously sing from the soul. You did. I hadn't known how deeply your song lyrics were embedded in my brain, or the brains of others.
I remember playing army men with you. We would set up entire armies on opposite ends of the room, then proceed to bomb each other with used batteries. Why were there always so many batteries about the house? Or we would take them outside in the front yard, where the summer weeds became great jungles. I can still remember what it felt like to be in one of my pretty dresses, and you'd throw a camouflage jacket on me and a toy army helmet, and give me a toy gun. That's the kind of princess I've always wanted to be since (kind of explains some later fashion choices).
How you would take me away from the monotonous and boring task of grocery shopping. We'd head to the vending machines at the front of the store. You'd ask if I got my allowance, and I'd present you with my quarter. You'd buy a root beer. You'd convince me every time that there was a pretty good chance it was poisoned, or that it could be real beer. As the older, wiser, and noble brother, you were willing to take the risk of testing it for me. Halfway through my can of soda, I'd squeal: "Tommy!!! Don't drink it all!" This was the game we'd play, and truth be told, I never minded sharing with you.
I see you in my mind, you must be about 12 (and if so, I am three). You are teaching me techniques for fighting. My fingers are in your hair, and I'm pulling your head this way and that way. You are laughing so hard that no real noise of laughter actually comes from your mouth. Your eyes are almost closed, and I can see all your teeth because your smile is so big. It's my favorite picture of you, and it exists only in my head.
I remember the look of confusion and concern on your face (when I was twenty-something) when you told me to take it easy, to chill out, because I was taking things too far, too seriously. You were right, of course. But thank you for being kind.
I could go on with a thousand more memories. But what I really want to say is that I remember, and I know.
I know how talented you always were. With music, compassion, wit, sarcasm, humor, loyalty, philosophy, words. Your songs ring in my head still, and everyone else that heard them. They are haunting, and sad, and beautiful. Others are humorous and catchy, or angry and profound.
I saw how your compassion was more like an art form. It extended far beyond compassion to animals, and was applied on a daily basis to where it matters most: people. You had the ability to make people feel special, seemingly just by association with you. You emitted a feeling of belonging through your charisma. In sincerity, you asked after people and their lives. From the lofty to the lowly, there are so many who were proud to call you a friend. I realize how people adored you.
I remember how you walked to the beat of your own drummer. Sometimes, I could dance and sing along beside you, because I could hear it, too. I know also how it could drive the linear thinkers a bit crazy, but they loved you for it, all the same.
I remember your wit and sarcasm and humor. You could deliver a brutal truth in such a way that even the intended receiver had no choice but to laugh at it. Sarcasm was so refined that only a few were able to catch it all, and those that didn't would often wonder how much you actually meant. You had developed cues to patch the gap between your wit and those who didn't understand it. You'd wait for it. When the look of confusion crossed their faces you'd jut your head forward a bit and smile. That beautiful smile! A smile with your entire face. Starting with your lips, lifting your cheeks up to your eyes, and then your eyes were completely laughing, too. Green eyes with brown sun bursts around the pupils. Sometimes greener, sometimes browner, always beautiful and kind.
I know you were a worrier. But you were always willing to help others take their minds off of their own worries. Through music, or shooting, or a hug, or a philosophical talk. I never got the chance to thank you for what you did for me after my dad died. Two days had gone by, you'd held me and talked with me. I was talking about how I'd spent hours a day on my bike when I was little, and how much I loved it. As long as I could ride a bicycle, I lived to ride it. Especially down the long dirt road behind the house. Breeze in my face, the smell of sagebrush in my nostrils, pedaling as hard as I could down the hill, until the pedals themselves were moving so fast that my little feet couldn't possibly keep up. Just to arrive at the bottom of the hill and slowly make my way back up to the top. You produced a bicycle from storage. You told me to have a go. I rode it up the hill, I raced down the hill. You waited, watching and smiling, and asked, "Well, how was it?" For a moment, I was 10 again, I was completely free of hurt and worry. Thank you. You did this kind of thing often, when I think about it. You were frequently my calm in the eye of the storm.
I'm grateful that I could see you in action in all your roles: friend, brother, son, dad, spouse, grandpa, uncle, musician. I see you in all of these, from my point of view (which is the only one I've got). It's a beautiful thing. I'll keep playing my memories of you in my mind. I'd say goodbye to you using some of your own lyrics, but I won't plagiarize your work. I'll just let you know that I finally figured out all the words to the first song you taught me, and I won't lose my grip on the dreams of the past, I will fight to keep them alive.
